


On the Corner of Neibolt and Waterbury

by Miss_Vile



Category: Gotham (TV), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Murder, Non-Canonical Character Death, Pennywise is in Gotham, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Vile/pseuds/Miss_Vile
Summary: There were many stories about the monsters that lived beneath Gotham. People always assumed that they were harmless stories, but the children of Gotham knew better.
Relationships: Jim Gordon/Leslie Thompkins, Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma, Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	1. One of the Missing

**Author's Note:**

> It's officially spooky season! I'm going to be publishing this story throughout the month with the conclusion being on Halloween!
> 
> I had the idea of writing an It AU when the second film came out but hadn't gotten around to writing it until now. I'm focusing mainly on a lot of the details from the original book (which I'm rereading for the first time in like... 17 years lol). I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know what you think in the comments :D

It wasn’t unusual for children to go missing in Gotham. They either run away, are kept for ransom or a nefarious plot, or they simply disappear into the night just like everyone else. There had been a particularly high rise in the statistics as of late— numbers that had not been commonplace in twenty-seven years— but the Penguin didn’t concern himself with it.

...At least until Martin went missing.

Jim got the call that morning. A boy had gone missing at a nearby school and there were fears he had been swept away in the creek and drowned. However, several hours of trawling the creek bed and nearby field yielded no body.

Jim stepped out of his office and was immediately met with a frantic, blubbering kingpin.

“I need your top men on this, Jim!” he flailed.

“We’re doing our best, Penguin,” Jim tried not to sound flustered, knowing all too well that the situation was delicate enough as it was.

“Your best isn’t good enough!” Oswald yelled, putting the bullpen on edge. A few of the other officers were already flanking the detective with their hands itching by their holsters.

Jim grabbed the man by the shoulder and dragged him into the hallway. Oswald stumbled and groaned at the way his “friend” manhandled him. They both stopped and glared at one another.

“I’ll pay you anything,” Oswald pleaded, “Just help me find him.”

Jim rubbed at his temples, “You don’t have to pay me, Oswald. I promise we are doing everything that we can to find these kids, Martin included.”

The Penguin looked dejected at that. It had been months and none of the missing children had been found. So what hope was there for Martin?

“Who is this kid anyway?” Jim asked.

“He’s special,” Oswald chewed on his lip, “I never wanted to be a father until I met him. I… don’t know how to explain it.”

Jim nodded. He certainly couldn’t see someone like the infamous Penguin filling a paternal role, but he understood how he felt. He had the same sort of instinct when it came to kids like Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne. He was thankful those two had at least stayed out of trouble.

“Please, Jim,” his lip quivered.

Jim sighed. He never could quite put a finger on  _ why  _ he had such a hard time telling the man “No.” The Penguin said that they formed a kinship after that day on the docks, but Jim felt like there was more to it. Like something was missing. But the longer he thought about it, the more his brain turned to static, “Alright. Come with me.”

They continued down the hall towards the morgue and medical examination room. There was a light on and they could hear someone speaking just behind the door. When Jim opened it, they heard someone squeak in surprise.

“Detective Gordon!” the man exclaimed, elbow-deep in a cadaver, “I… I was just...um…”

“Relax, Ed,” Jim locked the door behind them, “Penguin, this is—”

“—Edward. Yes.  _ We’ve met,”  _ he glared. Ed swallowed hard and nervously adjusted his glasses, smearing blood across his face.

“You have?” Jim looked between them.

“Yes, this man thought it was wise to approach me and spout off riddles and penguin facts,” he sneered.

“Riiiight,” Jim made a face, “Well, Ed here is one of our forensic pathologists. He’s the best person for this sort of job. I’ve never known anyone who was as good at solving puzzles.”

Ed smiled at the compliment. Oswald made a gesture, signaling to Ed that he should wipe his face. He turned and stared at his reflection. After a few  _ “oh dears”  _ and a thorough scrubbing with a wet rag, he was good as new. The awkward display would have normally annoyed the Penguin but, instead, he found it oddly endearing.

“May I ask what this is about?” Ed asked.

“Well—”

“—My son is missing,” Oswald interrupted.

“Your… son?” Ed cocked his head. He didn’t know the Penguin had a son. He only meant that penguin fact as a joke.

“We have to keep it on the down-low, but do you think you could help us?” Jim leaned in between them.

“You want me to help with a missing person’s investigation?” Ed’s eyes widened, “How very unorthodox of you, Detective.”

“Are you gonna help or not?” Oswald growled.

“Yes,” he responded automatically, “Of course, but… is it possible that, well… given your  _ profession _ that some rival has taken him? Or, do we suspect…”

The room fell silent.

“...Oh,” Ed’s eyes fell on the cadaver, its mouth slack and eyes like glossy stones, “Righto. Shall we go?”

* * *

Bruce wasn't afraid of the dark. He never felt scared wandering through the halls of Wayne Manor. He'd felt sadness, sure, but never fear. However, weeks without power and the Autumn air blowing in from the North that rattled the old windows made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Alfred was in the kitchen preparing lunch while Bruce studied in the library. He flipped through a book on Zoology, lingering for a few moments on an illustration of a turtle. He zoned out, transfixed by the swirling patterns on its shell, before he was jolted out of his trance by the sound of something clattering to the floor down the hall.

"Hello?" he called out toward the dark. He stood when no response came.

This section of the library was always darker than the rest— a gnarled tree outside the window blocked out the sun. The heavy storm clouds and the curtain of rain deepened the shadows.

"Alfred?" he called again and swallowed his breath when he saw a pair of lights among the books. It growled and Bruce took a step backwards.

_ It's not real,  _ he thought. There were no creatures lurking in the dark. The real monsters of Gotham were gangsters, criminals, and men in masks gunning down families in alleyways.

The stench of gravedirt and rotted vegetables filled his nostrils. The floods had swept away entire housing districts and overflowed the sewer drains. Wayne Manor was high up on a hill on the outskirts of town but they were not exempt from the damage. The wine cellar filled with rainwater that slowly rotted away the old wooden beams and stairs.

_ Rot _ was the only explanation. Not some clawed  _ thing _ hiding in the library that strained Bruce's eyes to look at. The longer he looked, the less he could describe. Like he was trying to decipher the details of a jumbled dream.

He clenched his jaw tightly and bit down on the inside of his cheeks. Finally concluding that it must just be a hallucination, he turned back towards the library proper.

He let out a scream when something grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Bruce!" Selina cried, pulling him into the light.

"Selina? What's wrong?"

"I need your help."

Bruce took a moment to look over his friend, only just noticing how disheveled she looked. Mud caked in her hair and blood all over her knees and elbows.

"You're hurt."

"I don't care about that!" she yelled, "Something took Ivy."

"You mean some _ one." _

"I know what I saw, Bruce! It wasn't a person," she insisted. 

"Was it an animal?" he picked up the textbook on Zoology and turned to the chapter on local carnivores.

"Are you going to help me or not?" she glared, swatting the book away.

"Let me tell Alfred."

"No!" she insisted, "He’s just gonna tell Gordon. They’ve been searching for those missing kids for  _ weeks _ . If we tell them then they're just going to get in our way."

"But, if it's dangerous, then we should let someone know."

"You aren't scared, are you?" Selina crossed her arms.

"No," he stood up straighter, his chin high, "I'm not scared."

"Good. Let's go!"

"Where are we going?" he asked, snagging his coat on the way out the door.

"The sewers."

* * *

Forgetfulness was an artform every Gothamite was skilled at. If it wasn’t written down, did it ever even happen? No one could recall the flood from nearly thirty years ago, but the public records showed that it did indeed happen.

It always rained in Gotham but this October had been particularly dreadful. A large portion of the Narrows was underwater and the GCPD was working with the City’s Public Works Department to place sandbags and barricades around problem areas. Several weeks of torrential rain caused the water from the river to spill over the levees and onto the streets— which made it difficult to collect and process evidence concerning the missing children.

The flooding caused blackouts that left most of the city in darkness. Martin’s school had been a casualty that morning which was why the teachers decided to allow the children to play in the yard in spite of the rain.

Martin made a paper sailboat using an old newspaper and some paraffin in the craft room and asked if he could take it to the creek that ran along the Easten wall of the play area. He remained in eyesight until another little boy fell off of a slide and required attention. When the teacher looked back towards Martin and the creek, he was gone.

The Penguin chose to stand on the one patch of ground that looked dry but that did not save his dress shoes from the mud. He kept his umbrella close to him, refusing to shelter the detective beside him. The forensic scientist didn’t seem as deterred or even bothered by the shin-deep water and slippery mess. In fact, he seemed downright giddy.

The police and search party had already torn up the path along the creek. Lush green was replaced with brown from all of their boots. A few locations had been marked with flags, but the ground was so disturbed that Ed was having difficulty recreating the scene in his head.

Ahead of him was a large stone that protruded slightly over the water. It wouldn’t take much effort to climb up, even for a six-year-old. Ed slipped and frowned when his boots filled with water, but he managed to climb to the top. He squatted down until he was roughly the height of the missing boy and grinned. He pulled the tape recorder from his coat pocket.

“If I were a six-year-old boy, I would sail my boat from here,” he shifted his weight and surveyed the area, “He would have been able to easily see his teachers and have the perfect view of his sailboat on the water.”

Ed stood and looked down the stream. The creek was flowing North towards the edge of the small island, the surrounding bay, and the Northernmost island of Gotham City where Amusement Mile and Arkham were located.

“Detective Gordon,” he called out.

“Did you find something?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he frowned and felt something cold settle in his chest at the despaired expression of Mr. Penguin, “Did they find his boat?”

“Boat?”

“The report said that his teachers let him sail a paper boat in the creek before he disappeared.”

“No, I don’t think anyone found a boat.”

“Interesting,” Ed said, snapping a picture of the trail that led beyond the safety of the schoolyard and toward the surrounding trees. He shook the polaroid and waited for it to develop, “Maybe, if we can find the boat, that’ll give us some clue as to how far he might’ve traveled.”

Ed looked down at the picture that was not quite in focus. The milky image appeared slowly, but Ed could see something peculiar emerge. He squinted and held the photo closer to his face. As the edges of the image darkened he could see a figure in the corner near some trees. Hastily, he made his way from the rock and jogged over to the patch of ground the figure must have stood. When he approached, he saw no footprints or any evidence that anyone but him had been standing there moments ago. Assuming he must have mistaken the shape, he looked back down at the photograph.

There, unmistakably, was a woman. The light-blue denim sat high on her hips where her oversized teal sweater was tucked beneath the hem. Her shoes were stark white— far too white for someone trouncing through the mud. Red-brown hair hung limply over her face.

Ed spun circles trying to make heads-or-tails of any details he might have missed. Frustrated, he looked back down at the photograph. His eyes widened the moment he realized she’d moved. 

“What have we here?” he said as he stared. The woman appeared to be moving, walking forward, slowly with an uneven gait like her limbs were splintered. He turned the photograph over in his hand and shook away any water that might have fallen onto its surface during the development process. When he dared to look back, the figure was  _ much _ closer. She looked different, however. Her head was bulbous, bald, and with red wisps of hair sticking out past her ears. Her face was gaunt under the white, cakey makeup and her eyes glowed a terrifying yellow. 

“Ed?”

He jumped with a squeal and then flushed in embarrassment when he realized it was just Detective Gordon and Mr. Penguin. He looked back at the photograph one last time and felt all of the blood drain from his face when there was no figure there.

“You alright?” the detective asked.

“R-Right as ruh-ruh…” he swallowed,  _ “Rain.” _

“You sure?” Jim questioned, “You don’t usually stutter.”

“I’m just getting c-c-cold,” he lied, “That’s all.”

Oswald and Jim glanced at one another before dismissing Ed’s strange behavior. He handed Jim the photograph and continued down the trail without another word.

“Where does this even lead?” Oswald asked, trying not to sink too deeply into the muck.

“Either to the mouth of the river or possibly the sewage drains along the trail,” Ed pointed towards a tiny whirlpool caused by the small drain a few yards ahead of them.

“Could he have fallen down there?” Oswald's eyes widened at the thought.

“It’s much too small for anyone to fall down it,” he said, “Though, a six-year-old of his size… I suppose that it’s possible—”

He hadn’t finished his sentence before the Penguin was tossing his umbrella aside and crawling on his hands and knees near the drain, all the while calling out the boy’s name. The mouth of the old metal and concrete cylinder was full of water and blocked by an iron barrier. The three adult men had no hopes of getting through it, but it was likely not be too difficult for a small boy to get washed up by the rushing water and brought to the opening to meet his doom.

Detective Gordon was already calling Harvey Bullock at the precinct to get another search party out to their location. He stepped away to give instructions, leaving Ed standing there with the panicked flightless bird.

“Mr. Penguin?” he kneeled down, “Mr. Penguin, calm down.”

“No! I will  _ not  _ calm down!” he spat in Ed’s face, “If my boy is down there, I need to find him! What if he’s hurt? What if he’s scared or hungry or… what if… what if he’s…” his voice trailed.

_ “Ozzie,”  _ Ed grabbed him by the shoulders in an uncharacteristically intimate gesture. He and Oswald both stopped and wondered at the casual usage of the name, but neither man said anything in protest. It felt oddly familiar on Edward’s tongue and even to Oswald’s own ears. 

Ed wanted to tell him that it would all be alright. That the boy probably just wandered off and got lost and would be found soon. Logic told him otherwise. Martin had disappeared just like so many of the others and Ed wasn’t known for his shining optimism. However, the thought of telling the man in front of him all of these thoughts broke his heart in a way he didn’t understand.

“We’ll find him,” Ed at least felt confident saying that much.

* * *

“This way,” Selina slipped through a hole in the chain-link fence.

Bruce followed close behind as they made their way through the winding paths of Amusement Mile. Normally, Gotham’s carnival would be in full swing at the beginning of Autumn and bustling with life, but the rain made the more exciting rides unsafe and melted the cotton candy before it could be enjoyed.

Ivy and Selina had been exploring the abandoned park when something came and took the girl away. Selina did her best to take care of Ivy— even viewed her as the little sister she never got to have— and had only wanted to brighten her day. They were playing in the old Haunted House when It grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her out to the flooded sidewalk and down the sewer gutter.

“Can you at least tell me what it looked like,” Bruce asked, still skeptical but unwilling to dismiss his friend’s claims.

Selina stopped and turned to him. Her jaw was tight and her glare was intense, “Promise not to make fun of me when I tell you?”

“Of course I won’t make fun of you,” he told her, “I want to help.”

“It was a clown.”

“A… clown?”

“You said you wouldn’t make fun of me!”

“I’m not!” I’m just trying to understand. You said it wasn’t a person and now you’re saying it was a clown.”

“It wasn’t a normal clown!” she stomped.

“I believe you,” he held up his hands in a placating gesture, “What did this clown look like?”

“It had this baggy old suit with pom pom buttons. And it’s eyes were this shiny silver, like coins… or maybe they were yellow? I… I don’t remember. It’s like the more I try to think about it, the more I forget,” she tried to shake the fog out of her head, “But it had these _ big _ teeth.”

Bruce remained stoic. He’d read that people can sometimes invent scenarios and monsters in their heads after they experience some sort of trauma. He glanced over at the entrance to the Haunted House and frowned at the large, open-mouthed clown that served as the entrance. It’s possible Selina just imagined the clown and was having difficulty remembering what  _ actually _ happened to Ivy— which was a reality Bruce wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to help Selina discover.

“You said it took her into the sewer?” he walked over toward the drain and looked in. Someone as small as Ivy could probably fit, but he suspected both he and Selina would have some difficulty. They would have to find another way down into the depths.

“Over here,” she grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over to where the old Kissing Bridge was. It had been abandoned for quite some time and was decorated in layers of graffiti. Just beyond it was the locked entrance to the old Gotham Water Filtration Plant that ran alongside the underground sewer tunnels.

“What’s that?” Bruce pointed to something on the ground near the entrance.

Selina picked it up and made a face, “It’s a notebook.” She shook off the excess moisture and then gasped when she realized it wasn’t water, “It’s covered in blood!”

Bruce leaned in close as they flipped through the bloodied pages. It looked like the sort of thing journalists wore around their neck to take notes, but this one was filled with a child’s drawings. Several of them were crudely drawn figures being stabbed with knives or lit on fire while others showed a small figure hugging a taller one holding an umbrella. Selina turned the page and Bruce watched as all of the color drained from her face.

“That’s him!” she pointed to the drawing of a clown, “That’s what I saw!”

Bruce looked down the dark, brick-lined corridor, “Come on, there may be others down here. Not just Ivy. We need to help them.”

“You don’t think Bozo the Clown is the reason all of those kids have gone missing, do you?” she asked, worry filling every pore.

“Only one way to find out.”

* * *

Edward Nygma knew the inside of the library like the back of his hand. He’d memorized every aisle and obscure article in the stacks, so it didn’t take him long to locate the blueprints for the old underground tunnels. The three of them decided to skim over the blueprints and follow the logical trail leading from the drains near the creek at Martin’s school. That was what led them to Waterbury Street.

“You alright, Ed?” Jim asked as he turned the corner down the old street and passed the dilapidated house on the corner of Niebolt.

“I’m fine,” Ed said, not blinking. The way he fiddled with the edges of the map told Jim and Oswald otherwise. He hadn’t acted the same since his odd freakout at the creek and he was acting even stranger now. Jim was starting to have second thoughts about allowing Ed to help with this case.

Jim parked the car and Ed barely waited for it to come to a complete stop before opening the door and walking down the street toward the small pond full of drain runoff. With a huff, Jim pocketed his keys and followed him. Ed and Jim walked in opposite directions to cover more ground. The pond was small and it didn’t take Ed long to find what he was looking for.

“Ah ha!” Ed exclaimed, pointing at the water. Without thinking, he barrelled through the waist-deep water toward the small paper boat. He snatched it from the glossy surface and held it high up in the air, “Found it!”

The three of them headed back toward the street to look at the boat that had been carried aloft through the creek, down the sewer gutter, through the old tunnels, and reappeared in the pond on Waterbury. Ed turned to Oswald who was eyeing the paper boat, misty-eyed. He placed it into Oswald’s trembling hands.

“So what now?” Jim asked.

Ed pulled the detective aside, “If Martin got pulled into the sewer, he didn’t make it all the way here. He’s probably still in the tunnels.”

Jim shifted his weight, “We should probably have Oswald go home. He shouldn’t be here for this…”

“Agreed,” Ed frowned, “But, do we really think he’ll agree to go home and twiddle his thumbs while we fish his kid out of the water?”

Jim hissed through his teeth, “Doubtful.”

“Ed?” Oswald interrupted, his brow pinched tightly in confusion. He carefully unfolded the boat and held the old newspaper article up where they could see it.

Most of the letters had either faded with time or were covered with grime and water. However, the headline and photo remained intact. It read  _ Tragedy on Waterbury! Arrest warrant issued for Richard Nashton. _

Ed stumbled backward until his back slammed into the side of Jim’s car. It’s not like Ed had  _ forgotten _ about his past, but it had been so long since anyone had called him Edward Nashton that he assumed it had been scrubbed from every dingy corner of Gotham. Evidently, it had not.

Richard Nashton— Edward’s late father— had been a cruel man. When Ed was young, he’d been knocked in the head one too many times by the old brute and he’d developed a stammer. It would take years of speech therapy and various drug cocktails for Ed to finally rid himself of it. Though, many of the scars remained. In particular, Ed’s habit of speaking in riddles whenever he was tongue-tied.

“I can bring tears to your eyes and resurrect the dead. I form in an instant but last a lifetime. What am I?”

“A memory,” Oswald answered, “I’m sorry… I just saw the article and thought it was an odd coincidence.”

“How did you know it had anything to do with me?” Ed asked sharply.

“I…” Oswald stopped and thought about it, “I don’t really know.”

“Didn’t you used to live there, Ed?” Jim pointed toward the old blue house. Or, it  _ used  _ to be blue. The new tenants had repainted it a sickening yellow with hunter green window shades.

Ed nodded.

“Yeah… I used to ride my bike up this street all the time. Didn’t we used to play together?” Jim wandered into the street as he got lost in the memory long since forgotten.  _ How _ Jim had forgotten such a wholesome childhood memory and somehow not recognized Ed when they started working together was beyond him.

“Wasn’t there a clubhouse nearby?” Oswald interjected, “I remember I stole a bucket of paint from that old warehouse and carried it all the way here from the immigrant housing where mom and I lived.”

“Oh yeah!” Jim exclaimed. He spun around to orient himself and then jogged down the street towards the old shed near Niebolt Street. “There it is.”

The shed had seen better days. Myrtle Jenkin’s, a fellow classmate at Hilltop Elementary, had lived in the house next door and used to sneak in to try and play with them, but the boys usually ran her off. It was something they would later regret when she went missing and was found days later in pieces under an old bridge by the river.

“How could we forget something like that?” Oswald smiled, “I guess we were more connected than we previously thought.”

“I don’t know how I forgot either,” he looked over at Oswald, “I didn’t recognize you without the blonde hair.”

Oswald rolled his eyes and then searched for their usual hiding spot for the key. He dug through the potted plant full of snails and found the ceramic turtle. Oswald gave it a shake and heard the sharp rattle of metal inside. He shook it over the ground until a small silver key fell out. Oswald grinned and then opened the lock to their old clubhouse.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been here too…” Ed said as he followed closely behind, “I was younger than the two of you, but you let me tag along… I think.”

“Yeah, I remember that too,” Jim nodded, “Something of yours was always broken. I think the first time I met you, you had a broken arm. Then you broke your glasses.”

“I was pretty clumsy,” Ed said as he entered the threshold.

It was just as they left it— partially painted and full of candy wrappers, an old radio, a broken chemistry set and stolen textbooks, among other trinkets from their childhood. They wandered through the clubhouse and spent some time with the old knick-knacks and bric-à-brac. Jim donned a dusty ball cap and tossed a softball in one hand. Oswald sat down in front of the mirror he stole from Mr. Dumas’ front lawn on big trash day. Ed, still stunned by their discovery, knelt down and picked up a stone that slid under his shoes.

“Didn’t someone attack us?” Ed asked as he looked at the rock in his hand.

Jim and Oswald looked at one another and shrugged.

“I don’t remember that,” Jim said.

“He wasn’t alone… He had friends,” Ed recalled, “They chased us from the river all the way here and pummelled us with rocks and slingshots.”

"Wait…” Oswald perked up, “Yeah… his name was—"

_ "Jerome Valeska." _

They said the name in unison and then stood there gawking at each other.

"How could we forget THAT?" Oswald chuckled nervously.

Ed rubbed the chill away from his arms and roamed, ducking his head as he went now that he was no longer the scrawny child he once was. He blew the dust away and ran his fingers over the stack of old comic books near the tattered hammock. Smiling at the edges of the frayed memories that were uncovered.

"We were kids," Jim furrowed his brow, unconvinced by his own words, "That was a long time ago."

"He tried to kill us!" Oswald flailed, "Then, when he failed, he went home and killed his parents, earning him a one-way ticket to Arkham."

"It was traum-muh-matic," Ed piped in, suddenly unable to stifle his stutter, "M-Maybe we… suppressed it?"

"All three of us?" Oswald huffed.

"It wuh-wuh-was…j-just a...um.. suh… suh-g-gest…"

  
"Suggestion," Oswald completed his sentence and then winced, having completely forgotten how much Ed  _ hated _ it when he did that when they were kids. Suddenly, he went pale, "Wait… how much  _ have  _ we forgotten?"


	2. It's The End Of The World As We Know It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is tradition, I made a [Spotify playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6W9yipB5OfvJIrmBYAilUq?si=__9OCxuiT2C5PZ1ny4smeg) Since the flashbacks take place around 1989, all of the songs are from that time and it reeks of nostalgia (At least for me… because I’m an Old Hag).
> 
> In true Stephen King fashion, this chapter is a different format than the others and is more than twice as long as the others. However, it's basically split into multiple mini-chapters. So... ya know...¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Let me know which parts are your favorite and what you're looking forward to most in the comments!
> 
> Also, just in case things get confusing:  
>  _Italic sections_ are flashbacks.  
>  **Bolded dialogue** is telepathy.

###  _ Peter Gordon Takes a Drive _

The Court made a deal with the Devil—  _ Which _ devil Peter didn’t give a good God damn. He knew there were countless monsters that lived beneath Gotham and that the Court liked to believe they had a leash on each of them, but they were wrong. No one had a handle on the thing that tormented Gotham’s streets during the flood of ‘89. The _ thing _ that stole their children in broad daylight and ripped them to pieces like poor Myrtle Jenkins. The thing that possessed Jerome Valeska and the animal that took a bite out of that bastard, Richard Nashton.

Gotham was cursed, that much Peter Gordon was certain of. Carmine seemed to be his sole ally against it. Together they were the only two people with the name _ “sucker” _ written on their foreheads willing to crawl through those sewers to find it and destroy it before it could kill again. Even Peter’s brother, Frank, had sided with the Court. They believed they should leave well enough alone and simply be grateful that the cycle was over for now. But Peter wouldn’t have it. No sirree, bub. Their children had suffered enough.

Poor Jimbo barely talked after that night. Peter found him hiding in that old tool shed on Waterbury the boys had converted into a clubhouse. Jimbo was tucked away in a corner curled around his favorite Ninja Turtle. He was bruised, covered from head to toe in muck from the sewers, and had a huge gash across the palm of his hand.

_ “The turtle couldn’t help us,”  _ Jimbo had said, looking up at him with eyes much older than an innocent ten-year-old’s.

Those words were his one and only reply any time Peter asked his son what had happened the night the thing retreated back into the depths. He knew that Jimbo and his friends likely had a hand in its undoing, but he could never get his son to divulge the specifics. He had a mind to ask his friends, but Oswald’s mother had shackled him to their apartment and refused to let anyone near him and poor Eddie Nashton had been funneled into the system after his father’s body was discovered in the basement of the abandoned house on Neibolt.

The turtle, Peter assumed, was likely just Jimbo’s way of processing the trauma he’d endured. When he wasn’t riding his bike or up to no good with his friends, he was sitting on the floor of their living room watching  _ The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. _ His favorite had always been Leonardo, which came as no surprise to his father.

The following year was spent finding the remaining two hundred and thirty missing children. Many of them had been found in various stages of decay along the riverbank, near gutters, and along the creek that bordered Falcone Academy. When Peter wasn’t assisting the GCPD or fulfilling his duties as DA, he was researching anything and everything about the monsters beneath Gotham and the system of interconnected tunnels and catacombs— woven through the underbelly like veins filled with dark water instead of blood.

The precise year of Gotham City’s founding was hotly debated among local scholars. The original settlers in 1635 hailed from the Netherlands and none of the nearly three hundred settlers heeded the warnings of the local Nanticoke people. A few years later, during a series of terrible storms, the entire settlement had vanished.

Some time afterward, a new group of settlers arrived at the island and took over the encampment. Among them were the Waynes, Dumas, Elliots, Crownes, and Kane families. The  _ Founding Families _ , as they were later called, were credited with establishing the small town on the New Jersey island and their descendants were responsible for it becoming the sprawling city that it was now. 

Sequestered among the settlers were individuals who would later form the Court of Owls, of which Peter Gordon was a loyal member. Or… at least he  _ used _ to be loyal. When he brought his worries about the cycle of death that could be traced all the way back to the disappearance of the original settlers and how the floodwaters had awakened whatever lived underground, they told him that it was all a necessary sacrifice to maintain peace. 

How on God’s green Earth were the lives of innocent children a necessary sacrifice to keep Gotham safe? He wouldn’t stand for it. No, siree.  _ Dum spiramus tuebimur _ — “While we breathe, we shall defend.” And he wasn’t dead yet, was he? No sirree. He may be getting on in years, but there was still plenty of life left in his bones and air in his lungs. So long as he was alive and kicking, Jimbo and his friends would never have to relive the same horrors they’d known as children. And, if they were lucky, they would forget about it all entirely.

He opened the door just a crack to catch a glimpse of his son safely nestled in his bed. Peter smiled, moved a few stray hairs away from Jimbo’s face, and sighed. He would never forgive himself for not taking Carmine’s offer. If he had, then his son might have been spared all of the horribleness. He wouldn’t be suffering nightmares.  _ No more,  _ Peter thought. Quietly, he made his way downstairs and out the door to his car.

The weather may not have been in their favor that night, but the plan remained the same: Meet Frank and Carmine at the house on the corner of Niebolt and Waterbury. Frank, in spite of his insistence that Peter not rock the boat with the Court, had agreed to come along.

His grip around the steering wheel tightened when he felt the car start to hydroplane on the road. The storm had come out of nowhere and, even in a flood-conscious city like Gotham, there were still several streets that were too dangerous to drive down. He would have to take his time driving there which made the chill of his anxiety climb up his spine.

Gotham’s secrets were buried deep, but those darkened depths were no match for the stubbornness of Peter Gordon or the resourcefulness of Don Carmine Falcone. No amount of rain and thunder would keep him from his goal. No sirree.

Peter turned down the familiar street and stopped at the red light. It wouldn’t be much further now. He shifted in the driver’s seat and looked beside him. In the passenger seat was a copy of  _ Night’s Truth _ from the Gotham Library, a book on Himalayan folklore, and a loaded Smith & Wesson. 

The car behind him honked when he didn’t respond to the green light. He turned his attention back to the road in front of him and pressed his foot to the gas pedal. The second set of deafening car horns came just too late as he turned his head and came face-to-face with a blinding, writhing light. He barely had time to fill his lungs with air before it was knocked out of him and the car was rolling down the street.

He felt his ribs crack and the cold, creeping nausea as his organs were crushed under the weight of the car. The chaos finally came to a stop, upside down, and with his neck bent at an unnatural angle. The edges of his vision blurred and the sound of the rainwater rushing down the gutter faded into distant static. He attempted to breathe but found that he couldn’t move. He couldn't feel pain or even the tingling of his limbs. 

As the life was slowly bled out of him, he looked out towards the gutter and could see two glowing lights staring up at him.

###  _ Eddie Nashton Takes the Blame _

Ed never benefited from therapy. They would always ask him the same tried and true questions and it always tied back to one thing:

_ “Tell me about your mother.”  _

Ed would be splayed out like a sacrifice on the brown leather couches in their offices and each time he would respond to their inquiry the same.

_ “I don’t remember anything.” _

His doctors assumed he was either repressing those memories or was too stubborn to speak with them. They tried every cocktail— Lexapro, Lithium, Clozapine, and Risperdal, to name a few. Many of which had nearly been a deadly combination that, in hindsight, might have been preferable.

Eventually, Ed grew tired of doctors. He grew tired of yellow and lime wallpaper and stainless steel. Of padded rooms and crisis centers. He refused to go to the hospital when he was sick or even when he broke his hand in an experiment gone wrong at the lab. He studied all sorts of things on his path to becoming a forensic pathologist and so could cure his own ailments. Drugs were easy to come across on the streets of Gotham, but they could be unpredictable. In the end, he settled on herbal remedies and supplements— Echinacea to boost his immune system and curb his anxiety, St. John’s Wort for his depression, and a smoothie of Ginko and Lion’s Mane to keep his brain from melting.

On nights like tonight, he also soothed his throat with ginger tea and honey. After investigating the pond on Waterbury, he came home to his apartment and screamed until his voice gave out. The kettle whistled as he peeled himself off the floor with trembling limbs and fire coating his throat. He set the tea leaves aside to steep as he pulled the entire comb from the honey jar and stuck it into his mouth. Unable to stay upright any longer than he had to, he slid down to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

_ How could I have forgotten Gertrud?  _ He thought. Oswald’s mother had always been kind to him and let him hide at their apartment any time his parents were fighting or his dad came home reeking of stale beer and bourbon. She always gave him ginger tea with honey for his sore throat after a long cry. She was more a mother to him than his own.

Tears streaked down Ed’s face again. He rarely cried but, after the events of the day, he couldn’t stop. He prided himself on his memory, on his capacity to retain vast amounts of information and regurgitate facts like intellectual ammunition on rapid-fire. How had he forgotten his friends? His entire childhood? How is it he didn’t recognize Jim when he started working for the police department? Or the endearing constellation of Oswald’s freckles and starry eyes?

...How could he have forgotten what he’d done?

_ “Ow!” Edward protested. The peroxide made his lip burn. _

_ “Stop squirming, Eddie,” Oswald rolled his eyes. He dabbed more of the medicine on Edward’s swollen lip and then leaned back to get a better look at his friend. He had a busted lip, two black eyes, and a gash across his nose. _

_ “S-Sorry,” Edward shied away from his friend’s stare. _

_ “Are you going to tell me what happened?” _

_ “I got into a fight,” he smirked, “Y-You should see the o-o-other guy.” _

_ Oswald pinched him on the arm, causing him to squeal, “That’s a lie. I’m not stupid.” _

_ “I… I fell down,” Edward sank in on himself. _

_ “Eddie...” he sighed. _

_ “I just… I made too much n-n-noise,” he shrugged, “Dad got muh-muh-mad. It was my fault though.” _

_ “Not everything is your fault,” Oswald frowned, looking down at the bloody rag in his hand. “Dads aren’t supposed to hit their kids,”  _

“Dads aren’t suh-supp-posed to hit their kids,” he stammered, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The sickening sweetness from the raw honey melded with the coppery taste of his blood. It created an oddly serene elixir that calmed his nerves. He stuck his fingers under the frame of his glasses and pressed them into his eyes to drive away the impending headache.

The memory of the soured smell from the sewers made him sick to his stomach. The distant  _ drip… plop… drip… plop  _ of water and the echo of it off the stone corridors penetrated his ears and made the hair on his arms prickle. Somewhere buried deep in the recesses of his mind, he always knew. There was a lingering fear that shrouded his heart late at night when he was at the lab alone and could feel eyes on him from the darkness outside the windows. He even sensed it when he was walking towards his car and thought he heard something call out to him from the sewer drains.

His past had been slowly eating him alive from the inside and Ed had been none the wiser. Now, finally, the veil over his past had peeled away like the skin off a cadaver. It left him feeling raw and vulnerable.

One thing was for certain— one aching truth he’d known since the moment he laid eyes on him in the bullpen— Edward  _ adored _ Oswald. Was in awe of him. He would go so far as to say he loved him were it not for the fact that they hadn’t spoken in years. After the death of Ed’s father, he had been thrown face-first into the foster care system. That didn’t stop him from sneaking out and running away to the immigrant district, climbing through Oswald’s window (which was always open), and slipping under the covers beside his friend. How could he ever forget the warmth there? Of Ozzie nuzzled beside him. Eventually, the system got fed up with him and he was sent further and further away from Gotham.

He remembered now how he managed to sneak his way onto the Greyhound bus out of Dallas. He avoided security at the station in Oklahoma City by hiding in a bathroom stall, listening to his Sony Walkman and crying over the mixtape Oswald made for him with all their favorite R.E.M. songs. He ran out of spare batteries in Memphis and, by the time he was stepping off of the bus in Point Pleasant, he’d forgotten why he came.

He wouldn’t think about Gotham again until he was applying for college. Ed’s grades were immaculate. He could have easily made it into any school in the country if he wanted which made it all the more surprising when he gravitated to Gotham University.

He graduated top of his class and left with a degree in Forensic Science and Toxicology. Luckily, not many of the interns chose to remain in Gotham City so there wasn’t much competition in the job market. He  _ could _ have moved to a less hostile city, but where was the fun in that? Gotham had more interesting puzzles to solve, anyway. And they didn’t have criminals like  _ Oswald Cobblepot. _

Seeing him that day when he turned around in the bullpen had been like a light finally getting switched on. He’d heard stories about the Penguin and idolized the way the man had dug himself from the bottom of Gotham’s slums through the ranks of the criminal underworld. But he never expected the name to be attached to someone so… beautiful.

_ Edward handed the nickel to the librarian and picked out his postcard. Even _ if _ Oswald didn’t recognize his handwriting or even if he assumed someone  _ else _ had sent it, Edward would know the truth. He would know that he had been responsible for cheering him up on a gloomy afternoon and that was enough. _

_ He placed the pen to the paper and stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he thought of the perfect way to express how he felt. Haikus always delighted him with their simplicity and mathematical structure. With a toothy smile, he wrote. _

_ A storm of blue-green water _

_ February showers _

_ Your eyes bring me home _

_ He threw his backpack over his shoulder and made his way towards the immigrant district. He followed the familiar path down Waterbury and the creek that ran alongside the old housing district and Falcone Academy. It was a short enough walk from the library and just long enough that he could lose himself in his daydreams. Warmth filled his cheeks at the thought of holding Oswald close. How crooked his smile was and how his pointed nose was too big for his face. He thought about how soft his friend’s hair was and how his eyes were his favorite shade of green in the right light. _

_ He pulled down the ladder that led to the rickety fire escape and climbed up the stairs towards Oswald’s apartment. He could slip it through Ozzie’s window, place it under a shiny pebble on his desk. But the point was for him to not know that Ed had been the one to deliver it. Or at least not know right away. So, instead, he opted to slide it into their mailbox. _

_ A hand grabbed him by the wrist, causing him to gasp and nearly drop the postcard. He looked up at the intruder with wide eyes… and then giggled. _

_ “You scared me, Misses Kapelput.” _

_ “What sort of trouble are you getting into now, kicsim?” she smiled, her Hungarian accent just as thick as it always was. Her grey-blonde hair hung wildly about her shoulders. The ringlets always fascinated him. They were soft and smelled of lavender shampoo and talcum powder. _

_ “N-N-Nothing, ma’am,” he attempted to hide the card behind his back, but Gertrud was always swifter than she looked. She plucked it from his tiny fingers and held it just out of his reach. _

_ “What is this?” she sing-songed, her face splitting into a wide grin as she read over the words. She pinched his cheek, “You are a poet.” _

_ “Please, don’t tell Ozzie! I—” _

_ “Shhh… hush now, kicsim,” she pressed a finger to the tip of his nose and scrunched her own in return, “I will keep your secret.” _

“Secrets…” the word fell from Ed’s mouth. He felt like he had stepped out of his body and was watching his own memories play out for him on a stage and knew that he was spiraling. The jagged scar across his palm ached and, if Ed were being honest with himself, he hadn’t even realized the scar was there until being reminded of it and the promise it represented.

Ed  _ promised _ . And, when he set his mind to something— provided he could even remember— he would see it to the end.

That was the thing with him, wasn’t it? He was a creature of unyielding habit with an obsessive-compulsive need to perform in exacting fashion. It’s why he came back to Gotham, right? To finish what he started? That had to be it. That was the  _ only _ explanation.

Each day he woke up, he took his medicine, went to work, watched Oswald flirt with Jim, came home, went to bed, and started the process all over again in the morning. That was the hand Fate had dealt him and that was the routine he had ascribed to since childhood.

_ Drip… plop… drip… plop…. _

Water dripped from the faucet and echoed through the apartment. Ed’s hands trembled in his lap. If he could just gather the strength to get off the damn floor, he could find his medicine and sleep this all off. But fear shackled him in his place. Voices called out to him from the pipes. Screams and the snapping of bones penetrated the remaining fog on his brain.

_ Drip… _

He clenched his eyes shut and counted each inhale and exhale. That was the routine. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

_ Plop…drip... _

_ “Eddie, I need you to go downstairs.” _

_ “Mom?” he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked over at his clock but it was difficult to read the numbers without his glasses. _

_ “Shh, Eddie,” she clapped a hand over his mouth, “You don’t want to wake your father.” _

_ She gave him his glasses and he could see her smile even in the dim light from the window. It was sad but determined- not at all like her usual smile.  _

_ His mom wasn't in her nightgown like she should have been. She was wearing jeans and the teal sweater that always smelled like cigarettes and rose water. She even had shiny new shoes. His dad always hid them from her. Eddie assumed it was some sort of game and that they played and if she could outsmart Richard Nashton and find her shoes, she'd be allowed to leave the house. She handed him something which made him frown. It was his backpack, packed to the brim and nearly bursting at the zipper. _

_ “Are we g-g-going on a trip?” he asked, trying to stifle the whistle between the gap in his front teeth. _

_ “Yes, Eddie,” she held his cheek, “We’re going on a trip, but I need you to be quiet so we can make it to the car.” _

_ Edward chewed on his lip as he threw the backpack over his shoulder. His mom hadn’t mentioned that they were going on a trip. Did she remember to pack his favorite toys? What about Ozzie? Would he be back in time to help paint their clubhouse? Any change to his normal routine always rattled his nerves. There were too many unknowns. _

_ “Mom, I’m scared,” he sniffled, “Is dad coming with us?” _

_ “No, Eddie. We’re getting far,  _ _far_ _ away from daddy,” she knelt down beside him at the mouth of the stairs. She brushed a few errant curls from his face, “He won’t be able to hurt us anymore.” _

_He looked down at her hands. She'd bitten her nails down to the nub and the skin was so split and frayed and covered in drying blood that it made him nauseous. Less so because it was blood, but more because it was_ her blood. _The sight of her nervousness only fueled his own anxiousness._

_ “But what about Ah-Ah-Ozzie? And J-James?” _

_ “Oh, honey…” she looked sad, “You’ll make new friends.” _

_ “No!” he wailed as loud as a nine-year-old could. _

_ “Shhhh! No, Eddie, b-be quiet.” _

_ “No! I don’t w-want to make n-n-new friends! I want to s-stay here.” _

_ “Eddie, shut up!” _

_ “Why do wuh-we ha-ha-have to go? I don’t want to go! I want to stay—” _

_ His cries were cut off by the sight of a calloused, sallow-skinned fist reaching out from the dark and grabbing his mother’s auburn hair. He thought for certain that fist had been attached to some sort of monster. It bellowed and grunted like some troll from his stories and, worst of all, it wore his dad’s face. _

_ “Richard, please…” _

_ “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the monster growled. _

_ “Mom said we’re going on a trip and you’re not coming,” the truth spilled from Eddie's mouth, his compulsive need to always tell the truth getting him in trouble once again. _

_ “EDDIE!” she screamed. His mother flailed in his father’s grasp. _

_ He watched, helplessly, as she struggled and kicked and slapped at the large man above her. He was twice her age and more than twice her size. Edward heard stories from other adults who didn’t think he understood what they were saying and knew that she had been a bartender. Richard Nashton was a regular customer of hers— “In more ways than one,” the adults had said. _

_ “W-wait… s-s-stop…” Ed sniffled, “Let her go!” _

_ He rushed forward and grabbed his dad’s arm in his tiny, frail hands. Without another thought, he sank his teeth into the grimey man’s flesh. _

_ “OW! YOU LITTLE SHIT!” he screamed, flinging Edward off of him and slamming him into the doorframe. Ed landed on his back and struggled to breathe. The wind had been completely knocked out of him and Ed wondered if this was what it felt like to die. _

_ “Don’t hurt him!” his mother ran towards them, but Richard turned and slapped her so hard that she stumbled. _

_ Eddie watched as she tumbled down the stairs and could hear the distinctive 'crack' and 'pop' of her displaced limbs. She fell, limply, on the bottom step. Her head lulled to one side and blood poured down the cuts on her face and out her nose and ears. _

_ Drip… plop… drip… plop… _

_ "Mom?" he watched and waited for her chest to rise and fall. She was so still. Like one of those bloated carcasses on the side of the road. _

_ "This was all your fault," the monster wearing his father's face bellowed, "You hear me?" _

_ "Buh-buh-but I d-didn't! he cried, "You hit her and she—" _

_ "This was all  _ your  _ fault, Eddie," he slammed his fists on either side of the boy's face, "When the cops get here, what are you gonna tell ‘em?" _

_ "T-that… it…" he swallowed, understanding, "That is was muh-muh-my fault." _

_ "Good boy," the man ruffled his hair like that was a normal thing to do when your son was terrified of you and your wife was dead at the bottom of the stairs. _

Ed couldn't help the laugh that spilled over. Of all of the terrible things he'd forgotten, that was the one memory he'd wished had stayed buried. And, the worse part about it was that those memories barely held a candle to what he remembered lurked in those pipes and the sewers.

###  _ Jimbo Gordon Takes a Case _

Jim remembered. It wasn’t just his childhood friends, but the stink of something truly evil that dwelled in the sewers of Gotham. The smell was sickening and left him doubled over on the bathroom floor emptying the contents of his stomach.

He was afraid. More afraid than he had _ever_ been serving in Afghanistan. As a soldier, those horrors were other people. In Gotham, those horrors came in the shape of clowns with rows upon rows of teeth. So many teeth. Teeth that threatened to peel away his skin and chew on it like taffy.

Gotham in 1989 had been plagued with gang violence, the AIDS crisis, and torrential rain. Jim used to ride his bike through the puddles, sending water up into the air in glassy sheets that soaked through his jeans. A simple boyish joy he could indulge before he knew of the terror lurking below in the gutters.

His father, Peter Gordon, was the District Attorney, so Jim had never known poverty. He saw it in the streets, of course. And he certainly witnessed it on his bike rides down Waterbury and through the neighboring immigrant district. But he never  _ understood _ it. Never lived it. He saw the faces of the missing children his age on the news and thought,  _ “That can’t happen to me.” _

Don Falcone— or, as Jimbo called him in those days,  _ Uncle Carmine _ — arrived late in the night to speak with his father. They spoke in hushed voices and hoped that Jim couldn’t hear them over the episode of  _ Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles  _ he was watching on the small TV in the den.

_ “Mario and Sofia are safely down South,” Uncle Carmine said, “What do you need from me, Peter?” _

_ “I haven’t even talked to him…” his dad shifted on the balls of his feet, “I don’t feel right just uprooting him like that.” _

_ “So you’re just going to wait around for that thing to get him?” Carmine leaned in close, “It’s the only way to make sure he’s safe.” _

_ “I’d rather keep him close.” _

_ “You can’t have eyes on him all the time, Peter.” _

_ “What are you talking about?” Jim peered around the corner. The two grown men stopped and stared like they'd just been caught doing something they weren't supposed to. _

_ “Uuhh… Well, me and your Uncle Carmine here were wondering if you were interested in moving down to Florida for the rest of the school year.” _

_ “Why?” he felt his stomach tie in knots. He’d never left home before. All of his friends were here in Gotham. His grades were good… why would his dad want to make him move in the middle of the school year? _

_ “It’ll just be for a little while, son,” Peter knelt down, “You’ll have Mario and Sofia there with you.” _

_ “But what about Oswald and Ed?” Jim frowned, “I want to take them with me.” _

_ “I’m sorry, Jim,” Uncle Carmine spoke, “They can’t come with you.” _

_ “This isn’t fair!” Jim screamed, “I’m not going! You can’t make me.” _

_ “Don’t be so hardheaded, son. This would be for your own good. You don’t know what kind of evil is out there under the—” _

_ Jim didn’t want to hear any more of it. He was already up the stairs and, by the time his father had reached the top step, Jim was slamming the door in his face and locking it. _

Speaking of locked doors, it was probably about time that he peeled himself off of that godforsaken floor and get back to work. He had a case to work on, after all. And Oswald wasn't the patient type. Not that Jim really blamed him this time around.

“Jim, talk to me,” Lee crossed her arms in the threshold leading to their kitchen, “What has you so scared?”

“I’m not scared,” he said as he attempted to pour whiskey into a glass and failed. Jankey Piss spilled out over the lip and onto the counter, “...Shit.”

“Seriously, what happened?” she asked again, more insistent.

“Nothing,” he threw back what little whiskey made it over the rim of the glass and grabbed his coat, “I’m heading over to Ed’s place. I’ll try to be home for dinner, but don’t wait up for me. Alright?” He kissed her on the cheek and tried not to look her in the eye.

“Okay,” she quirked an eyebrow, “Is Ed alright? He didn’t come back to the lab.”

“Yeah… Yeah, he’s fine,” Jim lied.

“He  _ never _ takes time off,” she narrowed her gaze even further. Bless her, nothing got passed her scrutiny.

“He’s helping me with a case,” that part at least wasn’t a lie.

“The same case that has you spooked?”

“I am  _ not _ spooked,” he rolled his eyes. He loved her, but he hated how she could always see right through him.

“You got home, took a two-hour-long shower, and poured yourself a drink. Now you have the nerve to lie to my face?”

_ “Lee,” _ he rubbed at his temple before wrapping an arm around her. His chin nuzzled warmly over her shoulder, “It’ll be alright. This case is just stressful.”

“You don’t have to do everything on your own, ya know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffed, “I know.”

“Don’t keep Ed away from the lab too long. The poor guy falls apart when something disrupts his routine.”

“I won’t,” Jim said, his eyes burrowing into hers, “Could you do me a favor?”

“Sure thing,” her expression softened, "Anything you need."

“Could you promise me… that you won’t follow me?”

“...Jim, you’re scaring me.”

“Just promise me,” he held her tightly by the shoulders, “I need this from you.”

“Is this about Penguin?” she asked, her voice laced with concern, “You don’t owe him a damn thing, okay? No more favors. You can tell him to shove whatever plans he has straight up his—”

“He’s my friend,” he interrupted. If those words had come from his mouth earlier that day, he wouldn't have believed them. Yet, here he was.

“Your  _ friend?” _ her eyebrows rose to her hairline.

“I don’t have time to explain. I need you to have a little faith in me,” he pulled her in close, kissing the top of her head, “Promise me you’ll stay out of it. And I’ll promise to explain everything once I make it back.”

“You’re lucky that I love you, Jim.”

Jim Gordon’s entire exterior persona was defined by his promises— the ones he kept and especially the ones he’d failed to keep. However, Jim never felt more like a failure than he did standing on that platform and receiving his medal for apprehending Mario Pepper.

Growing up, he’d always heard that cops were supposed to be the good guys. That you could always trust the boys in blue. The idealistic fantasy permeated everything he believed to be right and true and good. Hell, it's even why he joined the military. But, the longer he worked in Gotham, the more he realized that things weren’t so cut-and-dry. Oswald tried to tell him that fact when they were kids, but he refused to believe it. Now, more than ever, he knew that the Penguin had been right.

Secretly, he was happy for little Ivy Pepper and her mother to no longer be under the thumb of their abuser. But, as Jim steadily realized, their relationship with the man and the semblance of stability he provided was more complicated than he thought.

Ivy Pepper’s life had been the result of a failed system. Growing up in poverty stunted her ability to thrive and the state never bothered lifting a finger to offer assistance or keep the poor kid off of the streets. In the end, Ivy was adopted by the Isley’s in upstate New Jersey. They were nice. Owned a flower shop. She even had a sister named Pamela. As far as Jim could tell, the future was bright for her. Just look at Ed Nygma. Sure, he was a little quirky but he was the product of the system and things turned out well for him, right? Yes sirree.

Mario Pepper had been the fall guy for the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Jim, in another moment of weakness, had promised the young Bruce Wayne that he would bring their killer to justice. That “Justice” came in the form of two bullets to the chest and one in the head, just like his police training dictated. He was hailed a hero, but all he could see was the blood on his hands and the broken look on the small girl’s face when he gave her family the news.

Not long after Ivy had been sequestered away to her paint-by-numbers family upstate, he found her wandering the streets of Gotham with Selina Kyle. Apparently, the change of scenery didn’t sit well with her. He had a mind to haul her ass back to Juvie, but he figured he’d already done enough damage. 

_ “I failed him,” Peter Gordon said, his head hung low as he finished the drink in his hand, “I failed them all, Carmine.” _

_ “Your son is still alive. That’s not a failure.” _

_ “I was supposed to make Gotham safer for him. I was supposed to—” _

_ “You did enough, Peter,” Uncle Carmine told him. It wasn’t often that he raised his voice, but there were a few sparks in his tone that hinted at an impending outburst. Jimbo’s dad, on the other hand, was already to that point. _

_ “That thing is still alive!” he growled, “We need to go down there and get rid of it. Or die trying.” _

Peering through the crack in the door that night had been one of the last times Jim saw his dad alive. Jim wanted to tell him about what he saw. What he and his friends had discovered. He wanted to tell him about the turtle and what he told them. He wanted to tell his dad everything… but he’d been too scared. 

Deep down, he knew that  _ It _ had been responsible for his father’s death. Maybe not directly, but It played a part. Jim felt like he failed to protect his father— both because he never told him about the things he saw and because he failed to stop it in the first place when he had the chance.  He failed Ivy Pepper. He failed Bruce Wayne. He was on the verge of failing Penguin if they didn’t find Martin soon.

_ No more,  _ he thought.

_ No more. _

###  _ Oswald Cobblepot Takes the Throne _

The body of Myrtle Jenkins was found by the neighborhood paperboy on their route that morning in the early summer of 1989. Oswald heard about it through the grapevine while waiting for the bus and couldn’t help that prickle of curiosity that compelled him to take Eddie by the hand and dart around the corner and down an alley. His friend was equally curious about what sort of state the girl was in so they both made their way down the street and toward the bridge.

Oswald had expected to see police tape and a chalk outline like the ones he saw in movies or TV, but instead, he and Edward got to witness them pulling Myrtle’s arm and clumps of her hair from between the rocks. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel as grossed out as he felt he ought to be. Maybe his mother was right about all of those violent TV shows.

He managed to talk Eddie into ditching school for that day and going off to play near the creek and their clubhouse on Waterbury. Jimbo "The Boyscout" Gordon was much too goody-goody for that sort of thing. Eddie had been hesitant and voiced his worries about getting into trouble with his dad if he ever found out, but Oswald assured him they wouldn’t get caught. And, if they did, Oswald had a few tricks up his sleeve for wriggling out of such a predicament.

However, those tricks didn’t save him from the verbal lashing he received from his own mother when he returned home.

_ “Osvald, you must never go out there alone!” she held his face so tightly he thought his teeth might break. _

_ “It’s okay, mama,” he rolled his eyes, “I was with Eddie.” _

_ “Bah! Edvard is a sweet boy. Keep him out of your mischief,” she chastised, holding his hands in her own, “But keep him close. Védje őt.” _

_ “I’m not worried about bullies.” _

_ “It is not the bullies I am afraid of,” she frowned, “The police… they do not care about people like us.” _

_ “But, I thought—” _

_ “—They do not,” she reaffirmed, more firmly this time. Her tone brooked no misunderstanding, “We are unimportant to them. Like fleas. If you disappeared, no one would help me find you.” _

_ “I’m not scared, mama,” he frowned, “You said I was special. I could just—” _

_ “Stop this,” she clicked her tongue, “You are a  _ very _ special boy. Which means those things will just want to eat you even more.” _

_ “What things?” _

_ Her face grew pale and her hands started shaking. _

_ “Mama, what things?” _

He never did get a direct answer from her— Though, that mattered less and less the more he uncovered on his own that summer. She died years later, stabbed in an alley in a routine robbery. No one lifted a finger for the homely woman in a Havisham dress and thick Hungarian accent. He planned on leaving Gotham after that. Don Falcone even offered to pay his fare (for reasons unknown), but something nagged at him. He felt chained to Gotham’s foundation.

_ I promised,  _ he remembered,  _ I made a promise…. _

He assumed that promise had been made to his late mother— that, perhaps, he had been thinking about the promise he made to her to always stay close, to never abandon her, and to smash all of Gotham under his polished heel. It wouldn't be until years later, when he was staring Edward and Jim in the eyes near the corner of Neibolt and Waterbury that he remembered what it was.

“You alright, boss?” Victor Zsasz peered around the corner. Oswald had neglected to turn the lights on aside from the solitary lamp on his desk. The deepened shadows cast from the amber light aged his face considerably.

“What a stupid question,” he scoffed, throwing back another drink straight from the bottle of Jack.

“I was just askin’,” Zsasz rolled his eyes as he stepped further into the room. The light reflected off of his shiny, snakeskin vest like streetlights on wet asphalt.

“I believe it is safe to assume that I am decidedly  _ not alright _ until Martin is safely brought back to the nest.”

“Jim couldn’t help?” he asked, a hint of concern for the small boy creeping into his features. He seemed quite fond of him. Probably helped that he was so quiet and never fussed about Victor’s taste in music.

“Jim is handling the situation personally. But it’s…” the Penguin rolled the words over on his tongue and tried to stifle any hint of lingering fear from creeping into his tone,”...It’s more complicated than we previously thought.”

Oswald attempted to rub the dull throb from his temples, to no avail. It’s been like this since the very beginning, ever since he threw his previous employer off of the rooftop and assumed the throne of Gotham for himself. Fish Mooney had been a worthy opponent, but she was also a pawn. Oswald allowed her to play her hand against Don Falcone before revealing his own cards. In the end, he had been the victor.  _ He _ had been the one standing on that ledge screaming out the words, “I’m the King of Gotham!” into the brisk, night air.

_ “You aren’t prepared for what comes next,” Don Falcone told him. _

_ “Out with the old, in with the new they say,” Penguin smirked impishly, “Fish was right. Gotham is changing and it needs someone who can adapt with the times. And that person simply isn’t you.” _

_ “You really don’t remember, do you?” Carmine spoke in a fatherly tone that offended Oswald’s ears. _

_ “Remember what?” he snapped. _

_ The Don observed him for a moment, searching every inch of the younger man’s face. He sighed, “I’ve been meaning to travel South to be with my family for a while now. Perhaps it’s about that time.” _

_ “Perhaps,” Oswald’s finger didn’t budge from the trigger. He knew better than to let his guard down, even if it seemed like the man was willingly conceding the throne. _

_ “When the time comes, don’t bother calling,” Falcone straightened his tie, “I’m done with all of that nonsense.” _

_ “When the time comes?” Oswald chuckled, “You don’t think I can handle it.” _

_ “I know you can’t. You aren’t prepared for what’s coming,” his expression remained cold. Hard and practiced, “Give it a few years. You’ll remember. And, when you do, don’t bother calling me. I won’t answer.” _

_ He walked past the Penguin— a man he’d known since he was a boy clinging to the elbows of Jim Gordon all the way through his years of loyal service to the criminal underworld— and stopped at the door. He turned and looked at Oswald, who felt like the former titanous Don had just walked over his grave, and gave him one final warning. _

_ “I almost feel like I owe you an apology for my failure, but your arrogance might’ve killed you regardless. I just hope that, when you do finally remember, it isn’t because someone you care about is lost.” _

“Dammit…” Oswald slammed his fist on his desk. There was no use dwelling on the past now. All that was left to do was move forward and prove the old man wrong.

“Do we call in the Family?” Zsasz asked, a hairless brow raised.

“Not just yet,” he stood, “On second thought… call Barbara at the Sirens. Tell her to keep tabs on that alley cat of hers.”

“Selina Kyle?”

“With all of these kids going missing, it would be a shame if she became another statistic,” the words hurt him to say. The idea that he would find Martin torn to pieces and scattered among the rocks like Myrtle Jenkins made his blood run cold. The only thing keeping him sane was the fact that he could still  _ sense _ Martin, in a way. He couldn’t explain it. Those particular muscles hadn’t been used in quite some time. If he was honest, he’d forgotten how to use them or even that they were there in the first place. But, seeing Martin at the orphanage and connecting with him like he did ignited something long forgotten. Something buried deep that he thought died with his mother.

“You care about other kids all of a sudden?”

“When they are one of our own, yes,” Oswald pulled on his suit jacket and adjusted the buttons on the sleeves, “Miss Kean and her girlfriend have taken quite a liking to the girl. I would hate for their productivity to be slowed by the distraction.”

That wasn’t at all the reason, but he was content with his subordinates assuming his heart was full of daggers. It was easier that way.

“Righto. I’ll send the message to Butch,” he stared his boss up and down, “Should I drive you to wherever it is you’re goin’ first?”

“That won’t be necessary,” he waved his hand dismissively, “I’ll call Gabe. You focus on going to the Sirens and beefing up security. That’s what I pay you for, isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah… but…”

“But?” Oswald quirked an eyebrow.

“I dunno, I’m also kinda sorta your friend,” Zsasz spoke in an almost embarrassed tone— just teetering on the edge of hostility due to his own insecurity. Victor never was the most personable of assassins.

_ “Is _ that what we are?” Penguin asked. Victor only shrugged in response. “I suppose we are then,” Oswald smirked, confirming the other man’s assumption to the notion.

“Cool, imma go now,” Victor’s tone shifted back to the more no-nonsense version of himself as he made for the door.

“Wait, Victor… Um… since we _ are  _ friends, maybe you can tell me something?”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You worked for Don Falcone for years. You were loyal. Did he ever talk about something similar to all of… this?” he gestured vaguely, “The child disappearances, that is.”

“Not directly, but I do remember a few things from around the time he found me at Ma Gunn’s,” Zsasz explained, “Some weird stuff. He and an old buddy had been planning on taking out the guy responsible, but some sort of accident kept them from finishing the job.”

“An accident?” Oswald thought back to that time and felt a lightbulb click on, “You mean the car crash that killed Peter Gordon?”

“Yeah!” Zsasz recalled, “That guy. Real obsessive from what I heard. He kept a bunch of records too. I think the old man might still have them stuffed in a drawer somewhere at the mansion. I could try and get those, if you want.”

“Please,” Oswald nodded, “It would mean a lot to me, my friend.”

Victor only nodded and then left without another word. Oswald looked at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t rested since that morning when he received the call from Martin’s school. He’d been so bright and happy earlier that day. They were supposed to go to the park and Olga had planned on making Paprikash for dinner.

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to venture into the boy’s room. Perhaps it was just instinct or maybe these were just the baby steps he needed to take in order to grieve properly. He shook the thought away. There was no point in grieving just yet. He knew Martin was alive. He could  _ feel _ it. Something was just blocking out his ability to reach him.

Oswald frowned at the empty bed. Some part of his brain hoped that it had all just been some terrible nightmare and Martin was safely tucked away in his bed among his many downy pillows and stuffed animals. Oswald flicked on the light and everything was just where it should be. Everything but the six-year-old boy, of course.

The spare bedroom at the penthouse had been rather fortuitous after meeting Martin. Up until that point, the room served as storage. Piles of boxes, empty wine cases, and spare ammunition piled from floor to ceiling. He hadn’t lived in the penthouse long but it seemed that Fate had wired him to be just like his mother— a compulsive hoarder of useless things. By a year's time, he’d already filled it to the point of bursting. But nothing seemed to fill that void. Crown jewels weren’t enough to replace the warmth of his mother or the companionship he hadn’t realized he had forgotten and craved.

After ridding Gotham of the nuisance that was Fish Mooney, he rebranded her club— naming it  _ Oswald’s _ and solidifying his reputation as someone Don Falcone could rely upon. That didn’t last long before he made his move and checkmated the stubborn old fool. Eventually, he gifted the club to Barbara Kean— an old flame of one Jim Gordon— who made the club her own and renamed it  _ The Sirens. _

That’s how it always was… the changing of hands. The exchange of keys. The encumbrance of inherited responsibility.

A year into his rule, Oswald packed up his riches and opened his own place in paradise in the Diamond District. The  _ Iceberg Lounge _ was more a front than anything. The actual management was handled by some of his more loyal employees, but he kept the penthouse for himself.

It had been quite the lonely existence. His only company was the occasional visit from Butch Gilzean when he wasn’t acting as a bouncer at The Sirens and Victor Zsasz who was his head of security and personal assassin when he needed him to be. Martin had brought warmth back into Oswald’s life and his absence was certainly felt.

_ “Keep him close,”  _ his mother’s voice called out from the grave,  _ “Védje őt.” _

_ Protect him. _

Gabe pulled up right as he was stepping out the front door. He was one of the few members of Don Salvatore Maroni’s crime family that had defected with him. He was a dumb puppy, but he was at least a  _ reliable _ dumb puppy. He gave Gabe the address, climbed into the back seat, and attempted to not be lulled to sleep by the rocking motion of the car and the steady vibration of the engine.

A fog continued to linger over his memories. Many of them were tainted and twisted by the cruelty of the Underworld. But some memories were just too tender to be washed away so haphazardly. He pressed his fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. If he focused, he could almost feel the kiss there. It was light. Innocent and soft. Playful even. 

Had it been Jim? His heart fluttered at the thought. He’d always known there was something about Jim that was familiar and even made him feel oddly secure which was a luxury he didn’t have often in his line of work. However, the memory that bubbled to the surface didn’t quite fit the mold. Oswald clenched his eyes shut and he could almost see a mop of brown hair and feel the metal frames of the boy’s glasses smashed into the side of his nose.

He looked around the hallway and wondered if he had the right place. He never knew there was an apartment above the Chinese restaurant and so had been confused the entire trip up the stairs. He knocked on the cold metal door and winced at the sound of metal on metal as it slid open.

“Ozzie…” Ed said. His eyes were red and swollen and he looked like he might fall. He shook his head, “I muh-m-mean,  _ Mr. P-Penguin.  _ Suh-suh-sorry, how rude of me. Come in.”

“It’s alright, Ed,” he reassured him as he stepped through the threshold, “We’re old friends after all.” He shrugged and gave the taller man a shy little smirk, his own boyishness seeping out through the cracks.

“Yes,” he blushed, “Umm… How much do you rem-m-member?”

“It’s hard to say,” he limped into the kitchen, lured by the smell of honey and ginger. He looked down at the tea and smiled, “My mother used to always make us tea whenever you came over after school.”

“She did,” Ed walked over to the small cabinet and pulled out another teacup and saucer, “I’m s-s-sorry to hear about wuh-wuh-w-what happened to her.”

Oswald frowned and sat down at the small table in the dining room. His eyes flitted about the loft-style apartment as he took in the array of trinkets, framed prints of Expressionist artwork, and glum black-and-white photography. After a moment, he looked down at his reflection in the golden liquid and sighed.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“I tried to,” Ed told him as he sat across from him at the table, “Ah-ah-at least, I think I d-d-did… That part is still a bit fuh-fuzzy for me,” he swallowed. He hadn’t had issues with his stammer in years and the struggle to stifle it was making his head hurt. Luckily, he always had an easier time speaking clearly when he was around Oswald, “But I do remember running away all the time. No one ever wuh-wuh-wanted to keep me and eventually I just got too old for them to bother dealing with m-m-me.” He titled his head slightly and considered his next move. Tentatively, he glided his hand across the table and placed it on top of Oswald’s. “But I did come home. E-E-Eventually.”

“You escaped,” he huffed through his nose. There was a smile that had latched itself to his mouth that didn’t seem inclined to leave. Oswald turned his hand over so that their palms were touching and interlaced their fingers. The weight was familiar, “You had forgotten me by then. What pulled you back here?”

“I don’t know,” Ed exhaled, staring at the spot where their hands were connected, “Perhaps the w-w-weather? I always liked February showers.”

“What was that?” Oswald’s eyes widened at the words.

Before Ed could answer him, there came a knock at the door. They both stared, wide-eyed, like two frightened cats with their ears pulled back. Ed slowly rose from his chair and approached the door before sliding the metal aside like the top on a sardine can.

“Hey, Ed,” Jim Gordon gave a half-hearted smile.

“Did you find anything?” Oswald stood, knocking into the table and rattling the empty teacups on their saucers. Jim held up his hands placatingly.

“Nothing new,” he said, “The search party is still out there looking.”

“But they won’t find him,” Ed stated, a little too harshly for Oswald's liking, “W-W-We know where he is and I’m willing to bet it’s going to take us going down there to ourselves to find Martin.”

“So, what do we do now?” Oswald sulked. The gravity of the day weighed him down.

“Do you think It wants revenge?” Ed chewed at his nails, “O-O-Or do you think It’s just trying to regain the s-s-status quo?”

“I don’t really care,” Jim placed his hands on his hips, revealing his holster and looking far too much like those White Knight cops from their TV shows growing up, “But let’s kill It this time.”

###  _ Ivy Pepper Takes the Plunge _

It was cold that morning. Colder than it had been since the floodwaters pushed most of the street kids out of the safety of The Flea. Ivy had taken to sleeping under the fire escape on the rooftop that led to the pigeon coop. It smelled and it failed to keep her dry if the winds picked up, but it was better than sleeping by a dumpster. It also kept her from having to go anywhere near the sewer drains that had been giving her the creeps lately.

“Are you comin’ or not?” Selina asked. She’d roused Ivy from sleep, like a kitten demanding attention. Her cheeks and nose were pink from the cold. She almost matched the flushed look of the clouds overhead— a rare sort of sky in the normally dreary, greyscale Gotham. The color reminded her of Azaleas.

“Where are we going?” Ivy wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. 

“Someplace fun,” she told her, handing Ivy a half-eaten Baby Ruth.

“Fun?” she tried not to wince from the pain when a peanut struck the cavity on one of her molars.

“Yeah, ya doofus,” she rolled her eyes, “It’s your birthday. So we’re going someplace fun.”

“It’s my birthday?” she grimaced, “Oh. I hadn’t noticed.”

Truthfully, she  _ hadn’t.  _ Her mom and dad kept track of that sort of stuff. Why did people care if it was their birthday anyway? All she ever got for her birthday was more chores and a beating. But, Selina seemed excited that it was her birthday, so she might as well play pretend.

Her friend wouldn’t tell her where they were going. All she knew for certain was that they were headed North. There wasn’t much up North in Gotham. Not unless you were headed to that creepy old asylum or were taking your changes roaming down Park Row. Even the plants seemed to be reaching out to her and warning her.

**_Don’t go, Ivy. Don’t go._ **

She never really told anyone that she could sometimes hear them. People already thought she was weird, she didn’t need them thinking she was crazy. Not like she cared. She didn’t need anyone anyway.

Her plant friends were decent bedfellows. Oftentimes she swore that the moss would curl up under her as she slept so that she could have a bed and their whispers would even sometimes let her know if there was a warm meal nearby. If she was just crazy and hearing voices, they were at least helpful voices.

**_Stay, Ivy. Don’t go there._ **

_ Don’t go where?  _ she thought. She and Selina managed to secure their favorite seat on the bus— all the way at the back on the beach the two girls liked to sprawl out on. Ivy, still tired, placed her head in Selina’s lap as they made their way through the bustling streets of flooded Gotham. Selina ran her fingers through Ivy’s matted mane of hair, occasionally using both hands to claw at the knots.

It reminded her a lot of when she used to crawl into her mom’s lap for comfort. Selina was more like a protective older sister though and, if Ivy closed her eyes, she could almost picture what their lives would look like… 

They’d have bunk beds and clean sheets. Warm meals and loving parents who were still alive and not murdered by police officers or bleeding in the shower with slit wrists. They might even own a cat or two and name them after Ivy’s favorite flowers. She and her big sis would stay up late braiding each other's hair and watching movies with the volume so low you practically had to press your ear against the speaker otherwise they’d wake their folks.

Holidays would look just like those ones she saw in store windows or Hallmark cards. Snowfall could actually be something worth enjoying rather than an obstacle to avoid because you lived on the streets. A new coat and mittens were a gift every season and not fished from a dirty bargain barrel full of bugs.

She sighed when she opened her eyes and saw that they were not, in fact, playing dress up in their fanciful bedroom with bunk beds and closets full of clothes. They were on a bus headed “someplace fun.”

**_Come back to us, Ivy. You’re going too far._ **

They arrived at Amusement Mile and Ivy couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Selina sometimes still thought of her as a little kid that enjoyed that sort of thing. But, jokes on Selina, the annual carnival was shut down that season due to the flooding.

“Yup. This sure looks like fun, Cat,” Ivy frowned.

“It’s more fun than moping around on a rooftop with some birds,” she smirked, “Come on! I bet some of the rides are still open.”

Selina slipped through the hole in the chainlink fence and waited for Ivy to follow her. Something poked at the back of Ivy’s mind and made her second guess whether or not this was a good idea. The disparate voices of her plant friends flooded her ears with their pleading.

“What’s wrong?” Selina asked, “You aren’t chickening out on me, are you?”

“No,” she frowned, “Why would you say that? I’m not afraid of anything,” she lied. She  _ was _ afraid. Though, what she was afraid of at that very moment, she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Last one to the Haunted House is a baby!” Selina laughed and darted off down the road.

Ivy frowned, held her breath, and crawled through the opening in the fence. Selina was always faster than she was but her challenge had been completely forgotten by the time they both reached the old popup carnival mansion. It was one of these narrow structures built with different obstacles you had to make your way through in order to get to the other side. Selina often hid in the mirror maze for the sole purpose of scaring the pants off of some unsuspecting rich kid and pickpocketing their ride vouchers. 

You had to crawl through a creepy clown’s open mouth in order to go inside. Selina didn’t have any issues, but Ivy hesitated. Maybe she needed more food in her stomach or something because, for a brief moment, that giant clown almost looked real. It’s bloodshot eyes glowed and his mouth had this sinister curl at the edges.

**_Too late, Ivy. Too late._ **

And it was, in fact, too late. Ivy made it through the hall of wobbly mirrors and even the disorienting spinning disk. However, the moment she slipped and fell into the colorful ball pit, she was doomed.

“What the fuck is that?” Selina called out from the rope bridge that led to the slide.

Ivy felt something cold slither around her ankle. She looked down and blinked at the sight of a hand that had coiled around her and gently tugged her under the colorful balls. It was a woman’s hand, frail and overworked with chipped nail polish. She was momentarily stunned by it and wondered for a moment if it was attached to some vagrant or if maybe they had accidentally discovered a body. But that notion quickly dissolved when its grip tightened and Ivy could see the distinct slashes across its wrist leaking blackish blood in a macabre ribbon that smelled of rotted vegetables.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream as Selina rushed towards her. The figure rose out of the ball pit, dangling Ivy upside down like some sort of toy. To her surprise, it wasn’t a woman at all. It was a clown. A clown with large teeth that look more like talons than teeth. Yellow with deep, dirty ridges.

“Let go of her!” Selina cried.

“Oh, but Kitty Cat, don’t you want your friend to  _ float?” _ It spoke in a voice frighteningly similar to Ivy’s father. It bellowed and groaned as Ivy continued to scream. Before she even understood what was happening, the clown was dragging her under.

###  _ Martin Cobblepot Takes a Risk _

If Martin had been ten years older he might have dismissed what he saw that day as a trick of the light. But Martin was not sixteen. He was six.

Mr. Penguin (golly gee, his very own  _ dad!)  _ had taught him how to make a sailboat out of paper. He showed him how to coat it in wax so she wouldn't sink on her maiden voyage. Martin was proud of his papercraft and wanted to show his dad, maybe even go to the park to sail it together, but he was much too impatient. 

All he had to do to get what he wanted was look up at the adults around him with those pitiful, shiny eyes. His teacher had melted when he asked if he could wander just beyond the boundary of the play area in order to sail his boat. He practically skipped the whole way over to the small creek that ran alongside Falcone Academy.

A rock protruded from the ground at just the right vantage point to watch his boat float along the water. He climbed it and nearly slipped, but he managed to keep his shoes dry. He leaned over the side, plopped the S.S. Humboldt into the water, and watched as she bobbed along the creek. He grinned ear to ear with pride at his little creation. It wasn’t very often that he felt like he could do anything right.

"Be careful over there, Martin!" his teacher called out to him. He nodded and waved in her direction before turning his attention back to the S.S. Humboldt. 

_ Oh no! _ he thought as he watched it crash into some rocks. He shimmied down from his perch and ran over towards the paper boat, but it was just out of reach. He could barely brush it with the tips of his fingers before it dislodged itself and floated rapidly down the rushing water.

_ Oh no, oh no, oh no!  _ He wanted to cry out for his teacher in the hopes that she could help him save his boat from her watery grave but, alas, he had no voice. At least not the kind of voice normal people tended to hear.

There was  _ one person _ who could hear him when he spoke.

_ “You know, my mother used to tell me that I was special too. That I was just like her,” Mr. Penguin smiled, “She called people like us a Táltos, but I read somewhere that other people sometimes call it the Shining.” _

Martin reached down and scooped the paper boat right out of the water before she could sink. He had to wade out into the creek, soaking his patent leather shoes and blue dress socks, but it had been worth it. He let out a sigh of relief before turning to make his way back towards the safety of his school.

Had Martin been more perceptive, he would have known that shiny dress shoes weren’t built for toiling through water. The soles of his shoes were much too slippery and he failed to notice the wet moss that clung to the rocks beneath his foothold. Suddenly, he tumbled forward and felt his nose hit one of the rocks. The water carried him aloft far quicker than he thought he should have traveled. Surely he’d only floated away a few feet from where he had just been. But, when he looked up, he found that he did not recognize his surroundings.

Martin looked down at his ruined uniform. It had replaced his old one with the holes in the pockets that always failed to hold his treasures and the sleeves that were too much too short for his rapidly growing limbs. Mr. Penguin had gotten it for him and even tailored most of it himself. This one had shiny new buttons and silver cufflinks that made him look “astinguished.”

Tears spilled from his big, hazel brown eyes when he saw the tears in his trousers and the mud and water that soaked into the expensive fabric.

_ Mr. Penguin is going to be so mad,  _ he wiped his face with his tiny balled fist and then cried even harder when he accidentally rubbed dirt into his eyes.  _ He's not going to want to be my dad anymore… _

_ “What a silly thing to say, Martin,” Mr. Penguin spoke in a fatherly tone, his brow tightly knit, “Why do you think you’re unwanted?” _

_ Martin shrugged. Mr. Penguin was only just learning how to sign and Martin still needed practice. Out of habit, he picked up his notepad and started to write his answer, but Mr. Penguin stopped him and tapped a finger to his temple. _

**_“We can talk like this,”_ ** _ he said, his lips unmoving, _ **_“But only if that is what you prefer.”_ **

_ Martin nodded and then wiped his tears on his sleeve,  _ **_“I don’t want to go back to the orphanage.”_ **

**_“My boy, no one is sending you back there,”_ ** _ Mr. Penguin frowned.  _

_ Martin had come with a group from Metropolis and he’d been one of the unfortunate ones left on the doorstep of Ma Gunn’s School for Wayward Boys. Don Falcone had once come across Victor Zsasz and a few of his other more useful employees through Ma Gunn’s less than reputable school. Mr. Penguin had heard about it and, after taking the throne of the Underworld for himself, decided to pay the school a visit. It was there that he met the starry-eyed boy who clung to his pant leg after some of the older boys decided to take their frustrations out on him. Martin, being smart and mischievous, retaliated by stealing their bags and setting a trashcan on fire along with their belongings. Mr. Penguin looked on with rapt fascination at how he handled himself and they had been attached at the hip ever since. _

**_“But only if I’m useful, right?”_ ** _ he sniffled,  _ **_“I promise I’ll be useful.”_ **

_ “Useful?” Mr. Penguin spoke that part aloud, “Martin, you’re ability is remarkable, but that’s not why I’m adopting you. I would happily bring you home even if you didn’t shine.” _

Martin clenched and unclenched his fist. Mr. Penguin might be mad at him and his teachers were probably worried, but the first thing he should concern himself with was getting back to his class. He looked around and tried to regain his bearings. 

_ I’m lost, _ he thought. Just as those words filled his mind, the trees suddenly looked just a hair taller. The shadows were just a shade darker. Even the birds and bugs were a fair bit quieter. He whimpered at the pain on his nose and the bruises all over his arms and legs from the rocks. He wiped the tears from his eyes and decided that the smartest course of action would be to follow the creek back up the way he came… but something strange caught his eye.

There, staring out at him from the shaded trees, was a clown. Martin beamed at the cheerful-looking clown and his eyes lit up at the sight of the balloons he held in his right hand. He could smell cotton candy and popcorn and could even hear the sounds of other kids playing. The clown waved and motioned for him to come closer.

_ How exciting! _ He thought as he took one step towards the figure in the distance. Something deep and primal stopped him in his tracks. The clown was still waving towards him but the longer Martin stared at him, the more frightening he appeared. His skin made him look like some mangled puppet full of teeth and its eyes had this horrible glow.

“Don’t be scared, Martin,” the clown’s voice sounded frighteningly close. Almost like it was inside his own head but not quite in the same way like when he and Mr. Penguin spoke inside their minds, “Dontcha want a balloon?”

Martin  _ did _ want a balloon. Maybe the clown really was just trying to be nice. It would certainly be rude to refuse a gift, wouldn’t it? Though, it was a little creepy that it knew his name.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and took another step closer. However, this time, he was stopped by a turtle. Its shell was dark and it had a bright orange spot on its head. The small turtle looked up at Martin and blinked lazily from where it was sinking into the mud.

_ Maybe the clown would like to see the turtle too,  _ he thought. He picked the small animal up and held it out in front of him. When he looked up, the clown was gone.

_ Oh… where did he go? _ Martin frowned.

**“Underground,”** an older voice spoke to him.

Martin gasped and looked around him. He thought that maybe one of his teachers had come to bring him back to the school. He thought that he was in a great deal of trouble… but there was no one around.

**“It is underground,”** the voice spoke again, much louder this time.

Martin blinked and looked down at the turtle in his hands,  **“Are you the one talking, Mr. Turtle?”**

**“I am.”**

**“I’ve never met a turtle who could talk!”** Martin’s eyes shined.

**“Well… I’m not** **_really_ ** **talking, now am I?”** the turtle chuckled in a grandfatherly voice.

**“I guess not,”** Martin chuckled,  **“Do you shine too?”**

**“No, I am… far older than all of that. But you do. You shine quite brightly.”**

**“My dad says that I shine just like him and I’m special,”** he smiled,  **“I should introduce you to him!”**

**“Yes, but first we must find the others.”**

**“The others?”** Martin looked around, still unsure of where the water had taken him,  **“What others?”**

**“The ones that are underground.”**

The turtle craned its neck and gestured towards the concrete cylinder that protruded from the ground. It looked so foreign and surreal surrounded by the tall grass and brambles.

**“You want me to go in there?”** Martin asked, shivering slightly.

**“Yes.”**

**“But… it’s scary down there. What if I get lost?”**

**“Life is always going to be scary, Martin,”** the turtle said,  **“And a great many of you are lost. You spend so much of your lives avoiding risks. Are you willing to take a few in order to save the people that you care about?”**

**“But… I always mess up.”**

**“You keep thinking with that attitude, and you are doomed.”**

Martin swallowed,  **“Do you think I can do it, Mr. Turtle?”**

  
**“The real question here, Little One, is...** **_do you?”_ **


	3. Fractured Puzzles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned in another story I posted that I ran into some life events that kept me from finishing this on Halloween. So, sorry for the delay! The final chapter will be out soon so let me know what you think in the comments. They fuel me and give me life.

The sewers smelled like death, a mangled slurry of brown water and the stench of something rotten further below. Even Selina was having to bite back a gag with every turn of the corner and waft of air that slammed them in the face. Bruce was thankful he hadn’t had the opportunity to eat lunch before his friend dragged him toward Amusement Mile and the sewers where that thing had taken Ivy Pepper.

“Do you know how to get back to the entrance?” Bruce asked, looking behind them at the identical-looking corridor to the one they were currently standing.

“Look,” Selina pointed to a symbol spray-painted on the brick. It was old, but you could still make out the shape of a circle and an arrow pointing in the direction they came from, “Hobos draw these on the walls. We just have to follow them on our way out and we won’t get lost.”

“What about these?” Bruce pointed his flashlight to the other drawings and bits of graffiti. Some looked to be some kind of signature while others were more elaborate drawings— mainly of pigs in police uniforms getting sliced into bacon. One image that kept repeating caught his eye. It was of sharp, sinister eyes above the letters _HA HA HA_ that formed a menacing smile.

“People come to the sewers all the time,” she shrugged, “They get bored, I guess.”

“Oh,” Bruce nodded, still feeling wholly out of his element. He wasn’t entirely certain _what_ they were looking for. He knew that there was someone— or some _thing_ — dressed as a clown prowling through the street. It had already claimed poor Ivy Pepper and dragged her through the water and, if the bloodied notepad at the entrance was anything to go by, it had already claimed another.

Selina had only wanted to do something nice for the young redhead. She’d been through far too much for someone her age and Selina only wanted to make her happy for a little while. She thought that a trip to the abandoned carnival where they could roam around and enjoy the derelict rides would be fun. She hadn’t expected some clown to sink its teeth into her friend.

She wanted to fight it off, she really did. It wasn’t often that fear froze her in place and she was kicking herself for not being stronger than that instinct. She remembered screaming at it, futily. It had turned to her, her friend dangling from its clawed crasp, and she watched as its entire face contorted and split. She wasn’t even sure how someone could have teeth that long and narrow, but she watched as it bit into Ivy’s flailing limbs and then dragged her below the surface of the ball pit.

Fear gripped her and her stomach churned as she slowly processed what she had just seen. When she came back to her senses, she dove after them. However, the many colorful balls of the pit expanded and began to float and fill the tiny compartment of the abandoned haunted house. She pushed the balls— now balloons— aside and stumbled out onto the pavement outside. There was a trail of blood leading towards the sidewalk and Ivy’s desperate screams echoed off of the wet asphalt from further away. Selina ran as fast as she could towards the sounds of her dying friend but stopped when she saw the thing at the entrance to the old water plant. The look it gave her, all full of malice and a knowing glare older than the stars themselves, warned her against traveling there alone.

_“Kitty Cat, don’t you want your friend to float?”_

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck bristle at the memory of Its voice. It made her sick to her stomach and she was quietly hoping that the sound of It hadn't buried itself so deep she'd never be able to scrub it away.

Bruce was still unconvinced of the monstrous nature of the clown. He believed that she saw something and that Ivy was indeed taken, but the idea that it had that many teeth was absurd. Still, he was there to support her and to help locate Ivy. He just wished he wasn’t this far away from his comfort zone.

Selina stopped dead in her tracks and Bruce felt his heart sink when he saw her eyes widen and her mouth droop open. He rushed to her side, “What’s wrong?”

“Blood,” she pointed at the patch of ground in front of her.

Bruce looked down and felt like cotton had suddenly been stuffed up his nose because he suddenly couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t just a little bit of blood. This was a puddle.

Selina, now more determined than ever to find her friend, took a step forward. However, something solid and altogether too large to be a drop of water fell behind them. Bruce grabbed his friend by the shoulder and spun around with the flashlight. A quick snap of Selina’s wrist and she had a switchblade out in front of her.

The boy flinched away from the light and held up his hands the moment he saw the knife. He was wearing a school uniform but he was covered from head to toe in muddy water and what looked to be blood.

“Martin?” Selina gasped, immediately pocketing her switchblade and running towards him, “What the hell, kid?”

“You know him?” Bruce asked.

Selina got on her knees and held Martin’s face. She moved it side to side, assessing the large gash across his forehead and the bruising all over his face, “Yeah, he’s Penguin’s kid.”

“Oswald Cobblepot has a kid?” Bruce grimaced, but he quickly shoved all inquiries aside as he got a closer look at the boy in question. He was shivering, soaking wet, and the shine in his eyes seemed to be completely gone. He knelt down beside Selina and pulled the notebook from his coat pocket, “Is this yours?”

Martin nodded and wiped his nose on his tattered, bloodied sleeve. Bruce took off his jacket and offered it to the boy who wrapped it around himself.

“Did that thing attack you?” Selina asked, holding him by the shoulders. Martin stared at her, wide-eyed.

“It’s okay, Martin. We’re here to help,” Bruce reassured him.

Martin nodded and looked down at the notepad in his left hand. Bruce, now realizing the boy couldn’t talk, pulled a pen from the inner pocket of the coat and turned the notebook to a blank page. The boy placed the notebook on the ground and started writing. It was only then that Bruce noticed the Bog Turtle craning its tiny orange head out from the crook of Martin’s arm.

_We have to get rid of the monster,_ Martin wrote.

“How do we do that?” Selina asked, unsure.

_The turtle will help us._

* * *

Jim got the call shortly after he arrived at Ed’s apartment on Grundy Street. Alfred Pennyworth arrived at the precinct that evening insisting that he only speak to Jim Gordon. Apparently, he held very little respect for any of the other officers on standby, which Jim could hardly blame him for. Most of them were in the Penguin’s pocket or were too strung out to do their jobs properly. Though, admittedly, Jim wasn’t any different at that moment.

Bruce Wayne had been studying in the library at the manor while his butler and guardian was preparing lunch. However, when Alfred called him downstairs, he was nowhere to be found. No goodbye or even a note. It wasn’t unusual for the boy to venture out into the City on his own or with the occasional company of his friend, Selina Kyle, but the string of disappearances had left Mr. Pennyworth reluctant to have the boy out of his sight. To that end, he and Master Bruce had promised one another to communicate when they were coming and going. So his sudden disappearance left the man reasonably worried.

As if to confirm those fears, Victor Zsasz had returned to deliver the message to Oswald that Selina Kyla had been missing since earlier that morning. No official reports had been filed, but the familiar patterns left all of them uneasy.

Edward offered to use the forensics lab as a neutral base of operations for them. It also came with the added convenience of the records annex and a library of blueprints they could use to navigate the underground tunnels. With any luck, they could find the clues they needed to pinpoint where Its hiding place was and narrow their search for Martin, Bruce, and Selina.

_“Let’s kill It this time.”_

Jim sounded so confident when he said it, but deep down the three men knew he was shaking in his shoes. Of the three of them, Jim had been the most affected by their encounter with It when they were children. He was so sure of himself and his ability to defeat It once and for all but, when the time came, his own self-doubt had sabotaged him. What should have been a killing blow simply left the monster cackling and mocking him. 

_“I’ll kill you all!”_ It had said as it fled further underground. They knew then that It would return eventually. They knew that more people would have to die before It could be taken down for good.

_“Let’s make a promise,” Jimbo spoke, blood pouring down his brow and mud caked under his fingernails, “Let’s promise that, no matter how big we get, if It comes back we’ll be here to take it down.”_

_“I’m in,” Eddie said._

_“Me too,” Ozzie picked up a shard of green Coke-bottle glass, “Let’s make this official. A blood oath.”_

_Ed held out his hand to Oswald and flinched when the jagged edge pierced the skin on the palm of his hand. Then, Oswald sliced into Jim’s and then his own. They held one another’s hand and quietly made the promise they wouldn’t even remember they had made until nearly thirty years later..._

Edward Nygma pulled up a chair for Mr. Penguin as they set about digging through maps and files and the books left behind at the Falcone Mansion. At first, Ed wasn’t entirely certain what Himlayan folklore had to do with their current predicament. However, skimming through the notes and diary pages left by the late Peter Gordon proved invaluable.

Unknowingly, the three of them had engaged in a ritual of sorts when they faced off against It the first time. The turtle that called out to them from the Void had guided them down the correct path, they had only needed to follow it. For the most part, they had.

“Here,” Ed pointed towards a crudely drawn map tucked away in the old copy of _Night’s Watch._ He walked over toward the map of Gotham he had rolled out on the steel slab. He scanned over it for a moment before pinpointing the spot he was looking for and setting the paper beside it, “This is where Peter Gordon thought It lived.”

“That’s the house on Neibolt Street,” Jim said, pointing to the red X on the drawing.

“That was where we fought it before, r-r-remember?” Ed said, “When we came up through the tunnels we found…” Ed stopped, his face ghost white. How had he forgotten _that?_

Oswald saw it on his face, that recollection and fear. He could sense that Ed was remembering the same thing he was— the deathly cold breeze that carried the scent of rot and death. The angry sounds of Richard Nashton as he broke down the door to the abandoned house and chased them through the hallways.

Oswald, unfortunately, had intimate knowledge of the hatred inside mean ol’ Richard Nashton. His mother had always warned him to stay out of people’s heads. _“Let people keep their secrets.”_ she’d said, but he rarely listened. He liked peeking behind the curtain and collecting as much information on a person to use against them later. And, like any curious young boy who shined, he made the mistake of looking where he shouldn’t.

Richard Nashton stomped through that house vowing to " _put that boy in his place."_ He remembered hearing the man’s thoughts and how much he despised his son and all that he reminded him of. How, every time he saw him, all he wanted to do was squash him under his heel. There didn’t even seem to be any _reason_ for it. The man simply hated anything smaller or weaker than himself.

He never told Ed what he heard that day in the house on Neibolt Street, but something told him that it probably didn’t even matter. Edward knew. He’d lived it. Which was why the two of them had guiltily let out a sigh of relief when the man was torn to pieces in front of them by that bright light— the _Deadlights_ — that crawled up through the well.

Edward shook his head, continuing his sentence where he’d left off, “Wuh-wuh-we f-found that old well in the buh-buh-basement.”

“Then that’s where we’ll go,” Jim said.

“Unfortunately, I left my slingshot at home,” Oswald sighed, “And I don’t suppose either of you have any silver bullets laying about?”

“No, but we have the armory downstairs,” Jim pointed out with a grin.

“I suppose that will have to do.”

“We still don’t know where we’re going once we get down the well,” Ed spoke up, “These tunnels stretch on for muh-muh-miles and they’re all i-i-interconnected.”

“See if you can dig up the old records from the disappearances in eighty-nine,” Jim suggested, “Maybe you can find a pattern that’ll help us.”

“Righto,” Ed smiled before making his way down the hall towards the annex, eager to help in any way that he could.

He didn’t have friends before Jim and Oswald. As a kid, his only company up until that fateful day by the river had been cartoons and the characters in his books. On the last day of school, Ed had been on his way home from the Main Public Library when he had an unfortunate run-in with Jerome Valeska, Aaron Helzinger, and Robert Greenwood. They cornered him on the bridge near Robinson Park and Jerome, with his wild eyes and clownish laugh, held a switchblade to the boy’s throat. Eddie had almost welcomed it. Having his throat cut would at least spare him from the beating he’d get for coming home with broken glasses and blood dripping down his nose and staining his shirt.

The rock had slammed into the side of Jerome’s smug little face and Ed could remember the sound of the bully’s teeth clacking.

_“I’m gonna kill you, Cobblepot!”_ he’d screamed, _“I’m gonna_ fucking _kill you!”_

Oswald had looked so smug and powerful standing on the end of that bridge. He smiled widely as he threw another rock and pegged the ginger-haired asshole right between the eyes. Ed, not thinking, ran towards his savior and sent them both tumbling over the edge of the embankment and into the shin-deep water of the creek. Oswald had smiled, looped his fingers through Ed’s as if they had always been the best of friends, and laughed as the two of them ran for Waterbury.

Ed reached the annex and sighed the moment he remembered how illogical the catalog was. It really would be more efficient with a more lateral form of organization, but it couldn’t be helped. It took him longer to figure out where all of the files were located but he did eventually find what he was looking for.

Back then, Ozzie had told them that he could sense that _It_ was afraid of them. That they had weakened It somehow. Which was why It had crawled into the mind of Jerome Valeska and made a home there.

After Ed and his friends had confronted It, Jerome went home to Amusement Mile. He’d grown up in the circus with his twin brother, Jeremiah, and their mother and had always resented it. When he’d failed to successfully kill Jim, Ed, and Oswald he took his frustration out on his family. He slit his mother’s throat while she was watching TV and stabbed his brother multiple times before going into the bathroom and carving off his own face. He would later confess to the murders of all the children around Gotham that year and was sent to Arkham Asylum.

One of the filing cabinets had jammed. Ed jerked it open but accidentally sent one of the files tumbling out. He knelt down to pick it up and stilled the moment he read the familiar headline.

_Tragedy on Waterbury! Arrest warrant issued for Richard Nashton._

The pages in the file turned on their own, flipping through police reports and detailed photographs of his mother’s corpse at the bottom of the stairs. The final image was the polaroid he’d taken earlier that day near Falcone Academy. His mother— with her broken neck and teal sweater— was walking towards him from inside the still image. This time, Ed was too afraid to move.

“Ed..die… Eddie…” a voice called to him. It sounded like it was directly in his ears, like an insect had crawled behind his eardrum.

“No…” Ed cried, “This isn’t real.”

“Your fault… Your fault, Eddie…”

“No!” Ed covered his ears, but the voice was still so loud. The figure was close now. He could see the bubble of blood pop near her nostril and could even see the cracks in her teeth from where her face had collided with the steps. Blood erupted from the surface of the photograph along with her hand, joints and knuckles popped as the gnarled claw reached out for him.

“Mr. Nygma?” a woman’s voice spoke to him from the doorway.

“Ms. Kringle!” Ed looked up, terrified, “I… um…” he looked down at all of the blood on his hands and the floor and tried to find some sort of excuse to tell her.

“Are you alright?” she asked, picking up the file as if nothing was wrong with it.

“Don’t you see it?”

“See what?” she asked, “You mean the mess you’ve made that I now have to clean up?”

“Sorry,” Ed watched as she enclosed all of the files into the folder and put it into its place in the filing cabinet. Blood continued to spill out over the edges, soaking her hands and the front of her dress. Ms. Kristen Kringle remained unawares.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I think I have everything that I need. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

Edward grabbed the box and files and made his way out the door as quickly as he could.

* * *

There was still a lot that had been left unspoken since their revelation that morning. Jim avoided eye contact with the Kingpin, but both of them could sense the tension in the air. It was thick enough to cut with a knife. Oswald drummed his fingers against the table and eyed the rugged blonde from across the room. With a heavy sigh, Jim finally spoke.

“Yes, Oswald?”

“I’m just curious,” he made his way around the table and inched his way closer to Jim.

“About what?”

“Oh… just how long we’re going to keep playing this game of cat and mouse,” Oswald sat down on the table beside Jim, obstructing the other man’s view of their roadmaps.

“This isn’t a game… what we are…”

“And what _are_ we, Jim?” Oswald snapped, “Because, if you recall, when we were boys we—”

“That was a long time ago,” Jim growled.

In response, Oswald trailed his finger down Jim’s jawline, making him shiver. There had been countless near kisses even before they knew who the other was. The Penguin would be up to no good so Jim would retaliate with brute strength and manhandle him in an alley, pulling him close and breathing into his mouth. This felt different. This time they both knew that their connection wasn’t merely skin deep.

He could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath and wondered if he too smelled of alcohol and aching bitterness.

“I always knew,” Oswald leaned in, “And I know you felt it too.”

“Stop,” Jim whispered, but his own hand trailed up Oswald’s back and groped at the lavish fabric of his suit.

‘Why?” Oswald’s fingers coiled around the lapel of Jim’s uniform, “We aren’t boys anymore.”

“We didn’t know who the other was until this morning.”

“We were inseparable,” Oswald smirked down his nose, batting his lashes. Jim wasn’t pushing him away this time which just made him hungrier, “At least until you got sent away for school. Then you joined the military, drove around the deserts of Afghanistan, and then came all the way back here. To Gotham. Why do you think that is?”

“I got assigned to Gotham after I left the academy,” Jim growled, his hands still affixed to Oswald’s back, adding gentle pressure and keeping him close. Even _if_ Oswald wanted to flee, he couldn’t.

“And here we are,” Oswald ghosted his lips over Jim’s throat, causing the Detective’s grip to tighten, “Together.”

“You don’t remember, do you?” Jim searched the kingpin’s face. When Oswald’s expression changed to one of confusion, he sighed, “You don’t.”

“What am I missing?” Oswald asked, suddenly unsure of himself.

“You and Ed were—”

“—This was all I could manage to find of the records from that time,” Ed shuffled into the office, manilla folders balanced precariously on top of an overstuffed evidence box. He looked up at the two men so close together and nearly dropped everything on the floor.

“Ed?” Jim cleared his throat, “You alright?”

“Right as rain,” he lied, setting the files down onto the desk and maintaining eye contact with the floor.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Oswald noted.

“Yes… well…” Ed frantically ran his fingers through his hair and nervously palmed at his eyes, “I saw It. Or something. I don’t know… it could just be in my head for all I know.”

“Are you alright?” Jim stood up and went to his friend. The man was shaking, oscillating between clenching his eyes shut and flitting around the room. There was blood all over his hands, bright red and smelling of iron and putrescence.

“I saw my muh-muh-mother. In the ph-photograph. Ms. Kris-s-s-ten came in, but she didn’t s-s-see all of the buh-blood.”

Ed finally looked down at his hands. His face contorted into something bordering on fear and guilt. He wiped them on the front of his jacket, shaking his head and clenching his teeth. Oswald pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and took Edward’s hands into his own. The man cried at the sudden touch, but allowed Oswald to wipe away at the blood.

“Sorry,” Ed frowned, “I’m not as strong as the two of you.”

“I recall you being the bravest of the three of us,” Oswald corrected, “When It had Jim and I caught in Its deadlights, you were the one who saved us. Right, Jim?”

“That’s certainly how I remember it,” Jim replied.

Ed still wasn’t sure how to process the experience. He looked up, locking eyes with Oswald Cobblepot, and at least felt more at ease. It was still afraid of them. That was why it only targeted them when they were alone. Noted.

“I’m going to go downstairs and see what all I can get out of the armory,” Jim said, “Oswald, it might be smart to call backup from your end as well. We’re going to need the firepower.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Oswald said, “And I had already thought of that. Victor Zsasz and the rest of my men are already waiting for the order. We just have to tell them where we’re going.”

“Do you think we can pinpoint where in the sewers it might be hiding from the information in those files?” Jim asked.

“If anyone can find a pattern, I can,” Ed said, forcing a smile.

“Good,” Jim patted him on the shoulder, “Oswald, how about you stay here with him while I go talk to Alvarez. Maybe you two can get reacquainted?” Jim made a face like he was unsure of himself or like maybe there was a bad smell in the room. He made that face often and Oswald wasn’t always the best at interpreting it. Still, they were on borrowed time.

“Of course,” Oswald nodded and then turned back towards the stacks of papers.

Nearly an hour later, and Ed was confident that he had pinpointed Its lair. The well beneath the house on the corner of Neibolt and Waterbury was connected to one of the oldest tunnels. Specifically, one of the lower level corridors that branched out from one central chamber. Most of them had been closed off when the new tunnels were created, but they were still down there. All they had to do was follow the route on their map, avoid any collapsed or flooded tunnels, and make their way to the heart.

Oswald had fallen asleep beside him. He’d leaned over with the intent of just resting his eyes, but dozed off almost the second his head hit the table. Ed had draped his coat over the man’s shoulders and watched him as he dozed.

It was cruel how much he’d started remembering...

_“I need your help,” Ozzie took Ed by the hand one day on their walk home from school. The two boys ducked into an alley between some houses that led towards the creek._

_“What is it?” Ed asked, setting his backpack down on the ground._

_“Kiss me.”_

_“What?!” Ed yowled._

_“Shh!” Ozzie covered his friend’s mouth with his hand, “Don’t be so loud. Jim will find us.”_

_“Wh-Wh-Why should I kuh-kuh-kiss you?”_

_“Because I need to practice.”_

_“P-Practice?”_

_“Mmhmm. I don’t want Jim to think I’m no good at kissing!”_

_“But J-J-Jim’s n-not a guh-girl.”_

_“So?”_

_Ed frowned, thinking back to all of those reports on the news about that sickness spreading in all of the big cities and how all of the people at his church believed it was some kind of punishment for not being normal. He didn’t want Ozzie to get sick. And he certainly didn’t want to be the reason that Ozzie got sick._

_“W-Wh-Why do I-I-I have to do it?”_

_“Who else would I ask? Helzinger?” he laughed, “Please, Eddie? I trust you.”_

_“I don’t know…” Edward’s frown deepened. He looked around and prayed that no one had spotted them in their hiding spot._

_“I_ really _like Jim,” Oswald pleaded, “Please do this for me? Pleeeeeeease?”_

_“...Okay.”_

_“You will?!”_

_“Mmhmm,” Ed nodded, his face beet red, “Wh-wh-what am I suh-uh-uh-posed to do?”_

_“Haven’t you ever seen two people kiss before?”_

_Ed shook his head. He couldn’t even recall a moment he’d ever seen his parents kiss. Or, if they did, Eddie was fairly certain it wasn’t supposed to be like that._

_“Just think of all of those couples in movies,” Ozzie explained, “They kinda tilt their heads like this and maybe hold their cheek. But they do their mouths like this,” he demonstrated, his words barely understandable as he puckered his lips like a fish, “And you just press them together.”_

_“That’s it?” Ed gulped. He supposed it couldn’t be all that bad._

_“There’s more, but let’s start with the simple stuff,” Ozzie teased, “Otherwise your head might pop off.”_

_“How come you’re the one who needs practice but you know so much about it?”_

_“I watch a lot of movies,” Ozzie shrugged, “Now, are you going to kiss me or not?”_

_Edward leaned in, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest. Oswald’s eyes were closed and his head was tilted up towards the taller boy. He looked so pretty. Edward puckered his lips, held his breath, and pressed his mouth against Oswald’s. After a few seconds, he pulled away._

_“Is that it?” Oswald asked, his head tilting up and his face flushed from embarrassment._

_“I don’t know,” Ed chewed on his lip, “Maybe let me try again?”_

_Before he could move forward with another kiss, Oswald lunged forward and threw his arms around Ed’s neck. He was kissing him, turning his head slightly so that their faces fit together. The metal frames of Ed’s glasses pressed hard against the side of Oswald's bird-like nose._

_Ed felt his friend’s tongue poke out between his lips. He remembered hearing one of the older boys talk about_ French kissing _and the idea always grossed him out. But this was_ Oswald. _He parted his lips and the first taste of his friend made his skin prickle all over. It was weird and different. Kinda slimy. But Oswald tasted like grape soda and Toblerone. The two boys couldn’t help but chuckle as they jousted for dominance with their tongues. They broke apart in a fit of laughter, their foreheads affectionately pressed together. As their giggles subsided, Eddie leaned forward, his lips ghosting Oswald’s ear._

_“Ozzie, I—”_

“Edward?”

“Hm?” Ed looked around, suddenly aware that he had been caught up in another flood of memory. His face was wet.

“Sorry, I must have dozed off,” Oswald stretched.

“It’s fine,” Ed told him, “You’ve had a stressful day. You deserved some rest.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ed opened another file and chewed at his nails.

Oswald rolled his eyes, his gaze landing on the lanky forensic tech hunched over the files on the table, his hair poking out wildly and a cup of freshly brewed coffee beside him. The man had likely been awake just as long as the rest of them, pouring over all of the evidence to try and find the best route through the sewers so they could reach their destination and find the lair of It. And, with any luck, Martin.

It really was a shame that they had lost their memory and hadn’t remained as close. He might’ve had a skilled forensic pathologist on his payroll. More importantly, he would have someone in his life he could trust. He would have someone… someone who…

“Eddie?”

“Yes, Oswald?” he turned, addressing the kingpin.

“How much _do_ you remember from our childhoods?” he gestured to the sprawling pages, “We wouldn’t need any of this if we could just remember.”

“I can still only recall bits and pieces,” Ed told him. Then, he looked up, shyly. He was visibly shaking, “How much do _you_ remember?”

The Penguin stepped forward, “It’s all still foggy… like I’m watching an old black and white film. I can remember the plot and even some of the lines if I think hard enough, but most of the other details blur together.’

Oswald approached Ed, wanting desperately to get closer. Wanting to crawl inside the other man’s skin.

“Do you remember saving me from Jerome Valeska and dragging me out to the clubhouse?’

“I do!” he chuckled brightly, “Pegged him right between the eyes with a rock.”

“You were my savior that day.”

Oswald blinked for a moment. His cheeks grew pink as he stared at the ground. He wasn’t certain if the memory was real or fabricated, but he figured it was better to just ask the man directly, “Do you remember me taking you into that alley and asking you to kiss me?”

Ed blushed, “You wanted practice.”

“For Jim.”

“For Jim…” Ed couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

“But then you told me you loved me.”

Ed choked on the knot that formed in his throat, like a wad of dry cotton. The urge to laugh off his childhood crush was strong, but he remained resolute. He knew what he felt. What he wanted. “I did.”

“I responded by telling you I was your best friend,” Oswald scrunched his nose, “You didn’t come to school for a week after that. I thought I killed you.”

“No,” Ed laughed. Not because it was funny, but because he didn’t know how else to respond, “Um… Dad sah-sah-saw us.”

“Oh shit,” Oswald’s face fell.

“Yeah. He had my h-h-hide after that,” Ed confessed, “I was too embarrassed to come to school and m-m-mom was wuh-uh-worried that the teachers would say something about the b-bruises.”

“Ed, I am so sorry,” he sank, “That was all my fault.”

“Don’t blame yourself for something my father did,” Ed lifted Oswald’s chin to meet his gaze in a rare moment of confidence.

“Do you still?” Oswald asked, looking into his eyes. He could see the man underneath the nervousness. Finally.

“Still what?”

“Love me?” Oswald smirked.

Ed’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and then abruptly closing.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Oswald smiled, the veil lifting from his eyes like a sudden part in the clouds, “The poem when we were kids.”

Ed ducked his head but took both of Oswald’s hands into his own. He could feel his stammer coming on but knew he could bury it if he spoke slowly and deliberately, “I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. Worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?”

Oswald responded to the riddle by throwing his arms around Ed’s neck and slamming their mouths together. Suddenly they were kids again and they could help but break apart from their conjoined laughter.

“Your eyes bring me home,” Ed whispered.

Jim cleared his throat from the doorway. They both looked up, embarrassed to have been caught in an embrace.

“You two lovebirds ready?”

“Jim!” Harvey called out behind him, “Christ, I’ve been looking all over the precinct for you.”

“What is it, Harv?”

“I just got the call,” he said, out of breath, “Some real whacko just escaped Arkham. Killed a buncha kids in the eighties. Now the dude’s prowlin’ the streets again.”

“His name isn’t Jerome Valeska, is it?” Jim asked.

Harvey Bullock shifted his weight, nervous and shaking his head like he’d just had something big and unwanted fall into his lap, “Somethin’ tells me you know this guy.”

* * *

Lee wanted to keep her promise. She wanted to trust that Jim wasn’t in any real danger and this would all blow over before the night was through. However, as she stared at her own reflection in the mirror, she couldn’t help but feel like she was being watched. Something nagged at her, scratched at the base of her spine. It was starting to get to her because, on more than one occasion that evening, she thought she heard voices talking to her from the drain.

She poured herself a glass of wine and wandered through their shared flat— pacing back and forth endlessly for hours. By the time she was halfway through the bottle, she’d had enough. She looked up at the clock and scoffed at the blinking red letters that read _11:00 PM._

Jim didn’t always recognize how much she liked to get her hands dirty. Frustratingly, he had this rugged and outdated way of thinking about women that she was bound and determined to shove down his throat at every turn. So, she slipped on a pair of running shoes, jeans, and a t-shirt. She tied her hair up into a more practical updo before slipping on her raincoat and marching down to the corner to wave down a taxi.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“The Iceberg Lounge.”

“Wearing that?” the driver frowned, “They have a dress code.”

“Well, if my boyfriend is to be believed, Mr. Cobblepot is a friend. So I don’t think he’ll care.”

“Whatever you say, lady. But don’t get mad if they throw you out the door.”

The rain had come down in spurts most of the day. The wind picked back up the moment she stepped out of the apartment and howled outside the window of the taxi. It wasn’t strange for it to rain or even flood in Gotham, but something about it that day was off-putting. It smelled of sulfur and rot. It soaked into people’s hair and clothes and reminded her of stale embalming fluid. Whatever was floating around in the cloud above Gotham must’ve been seriously toxic and corrosive. Which, having all of that come crashing down on them once again was borderline poetic. It was probably what they deserved.

Something settled in the pit of her stomach the closer they got to the Diamond District. It swirled around her insides, but it wasn’t inspired by her typical worries or anxiety. It wasn’t because of Jim’s odd behavior or Ed’s uncharacteristic change in routine. It wasn’t even about the Penguin. It was a feeling she hadn’t felt since she was a small girl. Like when her parents told her horror stories about strangers with candy and white vans or those years she used to wake up in the middle of the night afraid of the monsters hiding under her bed or in her closet.

There was no reason for her to feel as frightened as she was, yet something at the back of her mind was screaming at her to run. To turn back. To leave Gotham and never return. Blood rushed in her ears, making them ring. She felt like she might pass out but, before she could, the taxi stopped at the brightly illuminated entrance of the Iceberg Lounge.

“Thanks,” Lee said, opening her purse, “What do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house,” the driver smiled in the rearview mirror.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, sirree,” his smile widened. His teeth were brown and yellow and his breath smelled of rotting vegetables. Worse still was the fact that Its voice was no longer his own.

“Okay…” she closed her purse and reached out towards the door.

“Oh, but wait!”

“Yeah?” Lee hesitantly looked up towards the mirror, gulping down air the moment she saw two shining lights staring back at her.

“Don’t you want your balloon, Dr. Thompkins?”


End file.
